


Return To Sender

by blythechild



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - World War II, Awkwardness, Conflict, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epistolary, F/M, First Meetings, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, Injury, Loyalty, Male-Female Friendship, Minor Character Death, Near Death Experiences, Possibly Unrequited Love, Romantic Friendship, Separations, Sex, Soldiers, Spies & Secret Agents, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-08-06 01:53:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 96,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16379141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blythechild/pseuds/blythechild
Summary: In 1942 at the height of WWII, Emily Prentiss receives news of her brother's death in occupied France. As she attempts to uncover details about his passing, she begins corresponding with the young lieutenant responsible for his death. Those letters will change the course of her life.This is a work of fanfiction and as such I do not claim ownership over the characters herein. It was created as a personal amusement. This story deals with violence, sexual content, and adult themes. It should not be read by those under the age of 18.





	1. Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> In case it isn't obvious: this is a WWII AU. This first chapter was influenced by letters between my grandparents during the same period in history, but the story is entirely fictional and not based on their lives. I've tried to get as many of the details right as I can, but please excuse any mistakes - it is meant to be a story about two people finding themselves in a dangerous time rather than about the war itself.

From the office of Lieutenant Colonel Andrew Brigman, S.A.C., U.S.A.A.F.  
On behalf of Group Captain J.P. McCarthy, R.A.F.  
February 4, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

It is with regret that I inform you of the death of your brother, Captain Evan Michael Prentiss, on January 31st, 1942. He died while on a mission in Northern France, and due to the sensitive nature of the assignment, I am unable to provide you with further details at this time. Though his death has been confirmed, the U.S. Army Air Forces do not have access to his remains, as he was in the service of the Royal Air Force at the time of his death. I have attached contact information with this letter for R.A.F. Air Marshal Wicken’s office, with whom you may correspond to discuss repatriation. 

My condolences to you and your family in this time of great loss.  
Deepest sympathies,  
Lt.-Colonel A. Brigman

\---- 

February 10, 1942

Dear Air Marshal Wicken,

My name is Emily Prentiss and I am inquiring about the remains of my brother, Captain Evan Michael Prentiss of the U.S. Army Air Forces, service number O2 354 688. I have been directed to your office because Evan was under the command of the R.A.F. during his service overseas, and as such, I was told you are privy to the details of his death. The U.S. Army could give us no information other than a vague location of his body. As you may imagine, my family are anxious to receive Evan’s remains so that we may give him a proper burial in our family plot stateside. Any information you could provide in this matter would be greatly appreciated.

Regards,  
Emily. E. Prentiss.

\---- 

February 28, 1942  
Office of Air Marshal Wicken

Dear Miss Prentiss,

Apologies for the delay in replying to your correspondence about your brother, Captain Prentiss. Someone from his direct command will be contacting you shortly with details of repatriation.

Our condolences for your loss,  
Corporal D. Ingram, R.A.F.

\---- 

March 18, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

Your inquiry was brought to my attention only this week and I apologise for the tardiness of my response as well as the frustrating lack of information during such an emotional time for you and your family. As Wing Commander, Captain Prentiss was under my direct command for his missions, but the people who knew him best were the intelligence unit he ran into and out of occupied France for the past year. I reached out to Group Captain McCarthy from our Canadian intelligence training service where Captain Prentiss was stationed when not on a mission. While he could not reveal the exact details of his final mission, G.C. McCarthy did tell me that Captain Prentiss died while drawing fire away from an intelligence unit he was scheduled to pick up and return to London. All four members of that unit survived and were safely retrieved a few days later, ensuring that their vital intelligence was received. In short, Evan died a hero, protecting those he fought beside. I hope that will bring you a modicum of comfort.

I have also learned that Captain Prentiss’s body was recovered and buried by locals. His resting place is marked, and in consecrated ground. Unfortunately, because he was shot down behind enemy lines, we cannot repatriate his body at this time. If and when it becomes safe to do so, we will ensure that his remains are reclaimed and brought home to your family. An officer from Captain Prentiss’s intelligence unit has seen his grave and made sure that it can be easily identified when the time comes.

On a personal note, Miss Prentiss, your brother was a smart, brave, amiable man with excellent flight instincts and a calmness under fire that was envied by many. I know that he volunteered for service, before America joined the cause, and he struck me as a principled individual of the highest caliber. Even after everything he saw, his intentions never wavered. I wish we had more men like him in this fight. The members of his specific intelligence unit are upset by his loss – they were all quite close. He will be missed.

I understand that this isn’t the information you wished to receive, but I hope it will carry you and your loved ones over until we can reach another conclusion.

With deepest regret,  
Wing Commander Ian G. Murray, R.A.F.  
London

\---- 

April 21, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

It has taken me far too long to write this letter. The problem has been that I do not know how to find the words to express how I feel in a meaningful way for you – a stranger – to whom this information will be unsettling. However, I have come to the conclusion that there is no easy way to do this, so I will just try my best. Evan always said that’s all anyone had any right to expect from another person anyway.

My name is Spencer Reid and I am a lieutenant in the SIS (which we aren’t supposed to tell people but, ironically, I’m not great at keeping secrets). I ~~was~~ am the leader of an intelligence unit that Evan flew in and out of France on a regular basis. He was coming to retrieve us the night he was shot down. He did it on my orders – I was assured that patrols would be elsewhere that evening and that the sky would be clear, albeit dark because of the new moon. We had done this a dozen times before. We were in an open field as your brother descended, and we were set upon by a small but well-armed German patrol unit. Evan could have pulled up. He could have left us to our fate – it was obvious that someone in the resistance network betrayed us – but he could have lived to fight another day.

He strafed the field, taking out some of them. It gave us some precious moments to find cover. He gained altitude after his run, and I thought he’d turn for home, doing what he could to help us but realizing the only sound plan was to retreat. There was no way to communicate with him – to tell him we’d find a place to hold up and for him to return to HQ. But, I guess, that wasn’t Evan’s way. He turned to make another run along the field, but the Krauts were prepared this time, and Evan was a big target. Even with a blown engine, he might have still been able to put the plane down somewhere safely. I’d seen him do more with much less in the past. But the field was surrounded by a dense forest – there was nowhere to go. When he hit the treeline, I knew he was gone. The explosion was immense – he still had enough fuel for a return run, you see.

What I’m trying to say is he didn’t need to die. The strafing run had been enough to save us. And it’s my fault he’s gone because, as we later discovered, it was _my_ contact who told the Nazis about our rendezvous. An individual I cultivated and trained. Evan told me that my persistent belief in people would get me killed one day. He was half right.

No words will make any of this right. No apology will be deep enough, no reckoning severe enough to even the scales. Evan’s loss eats away at me – he was my friend. ~~And to know I killed my friend,~~

He spoke of you so often, Miss Prentiss, I feel I know you. But, of course, I do not. And there is no way we can ever know one another now he’s gone. The only thing I can give you is the truth about how he died. The R.A.F. will never tell you – they can’t. Official Secrets Act. I could go to prison for writing this down. If Evan’s stories of you were accurate, I know you’ll never be satisfied by a half-truth. So, here it is in all of its ignominy. 

Evan was a good man. Funny, smart, capable, daring, personable. He was everything I wished I could be. He should still be here, and I wish for that too.

Yours, with respect,  
Lt. Spencer Reid  
London

\---- 

May 21, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut 

Dear Lt. Reid,

I suppose I ought to thank you for your letter, but that’s a tall order considering its contents. I’ll thank you for your honesty, at least. I was beginning to wonder if anyone involved in this damned war could talk straight anymore. All I wanted was something I could tell our mother about Ev, and you provided that, so… thank you.

As for the rest, how dare you? To hint at your guilt and yet never once apologize. To destroy the (admittedly false) story of my brother’s heroic death, and replace it with something so… utterly _pointless._ Did you really believe that would help? Were you honestly attempting to comfort me? Or was it to ease YOUR conscience? You’re right: you don’t know me. Because if you did, you would have known better than to try this. 

I have no idea what sort of a man you are, but given that your poor judgment endangered lives, and that you seem incapable of upholding the fundamental tenets of your job, I do not understand what Evan saw in you that encouraged friendship. I will not report the fact that you broke your oath to tell me classified information, but I strongly suggest that you request a new assignment. This war is too important to be left to such bumbling, untrustworthy hands. If you are a moral person, don’t let other sisters get telegrams about their dead brothers because of your mistakes. Step aside and let better men fight this war.

My little brother is gone. That’s a hole that can never be filled again. I will not forgive that.

Emily E. Prentiss

\---- 

June 11, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

You are absolutely right. Your letter is a searing indictment of my failings – I cannot refute any of it. I _am_ a bumbler, and wholly unsuited to the position in which I find myself. And, for what it’s worth now, I am deeply, unreservedly sorry for Evan’s death. It is unforgivable that I did not say so in my original letter. I shall not waste your time by attempting to express my shame and remorse once again.

What I will say is that, from your letter, you are every bit your brother’s sister. Though it is a miniscule sample size to draw conclusions from, you appear to be everything Evan ever told us you were. He was proud of his big sister. He wanted to live up to your example of gutsiness, and what he called ‘zero bullshit-tolerance’ (please excuse my language). The lines you wrote remind me of him. His opinions were strong and unvarnished, but his convictions and camaraderie were just as strong and undisguised. It is a comfort to me that my actions didn’t erase all of those ‘Prentiss qualities’ from the world.

Thank you for your time and your perspective, Miss Prentiss. May this war touch you no further.  
Regards,  
Lt. S. Reid  
London

\---- 

July 25, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Lt. Reid,

I couldn’t make up my mind whether I should send this or not. But I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Evan…

I cannot forgive you for what you did. I _cannot._ Partly because I’m stubborn, and my brother was the only person I felt understood me – and you took that away. But, in large part, I realize that forgiveness in this situation is not mine to give. It’s not my mother’s either. Only Evan can do it, or God, if you believe in such things in these times. If you and Evan were the sort of friends that you claim, he’s probably already forgiven you. He wasn’t the type to hold a grudge. Not like me. So… there. Don’t allow useless guilt to consume you. It won’t bring Evan back.

Additionally, I was… quite rude to you. My mother went to great lengths to raise a better woman than that. Character assassination through the post isn’t very ladylike. And I don’t know you just as you do not know me. It wasn’t terribly fair, and though I was justifiably emotional, that’s not a good excuse. I now find myself in the uncomfortable position of asking for _your_ forgiveness whilst simultaneously acknowledging life’s sense of irony. I apologize, Lieutenant, and hope that you chose to ignore the words of a forgettable, faceless woman from across the ocean. This life – in these times – is hard enough.

That is all I had to say.

Good luck & farewell,  
Emily E. Prentiss

\---- 

September 3, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

This reply is egregiously late. I was in occupied territory for six weeks (no, I’m not violating anything by telling you that) and only received mail delivery when I returned yesterday. I had to sleep first, find clean clothes, and eat something before I keeled over, but then I sat down to write to you immediately. This is where I find myself now – in noisy officers’ barracks, huddled under an army blanket, and fighting off the English chill with a cup of Earl Grey.

Firstly, no apology is necessary as everything you said to me was the truth. An uncomfortable truth to be sure, but not one worthy of regret. Better to speak plainly, don’t you think? And you are not forgettable. Though I only know you from your words, your assessment has had consequences on my actions. This role that I find myself in is important, and I must accept the responsibility of that – a responsibility that others thought me capable of, including your brother. It was vital for me to hear that I was failing. 

We aren’t just fighting for our individual lives, but our way of life as well. The consequences of failing are too daunting to imagine. It must not come to pass. Now, I face every day, each cold morning in a hostile town where everyone could be my enemy, with Evan as an example in my mind’s eye. I told you he was everything I wanted to be. Well, now I’m trying to _be_ that. His example and your words drive me. Because I will _not_ fail. We will win this war. So many turning points come down to the efforts of a single person, or a fortuitous moment in time – I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes. We must all be at our best. Everything we do _matters._ I will strive to be a bumbler no longer, and I wanted you to know that.

Secondly, thank you for writing to me again. That you took the time to evaluate your thoughts and feelings over such a terrible event, and then to explain them to me… well, it was considerate and unexpected. I never thought I’d hear from you again. I appreciate that forgiveness is not to be had, but also that you believe Evan is at peace. I am not a religious man, nor do I believe in a life beyond this one. And yet, this sentiment has given me great comfort. I’m not sure I deserve that, but you are kind to think it, let alone taking the time to write it down and send it to me. I will treasure this consideration always.

I hope this letter will find you well (or as well as can be expected in the middle of a global cataclysm). When I return to France soon, I will go to your brother’s grave and let him know how you are. Forgive the sentimentality, but we were both great talkers in life, and I see no reason for that to change now he’s suddenly a lot more tight-lipped. Friends can be hard to come by – you make do with what you’re given, I guess.

Be well, Miss Prentiss, and thank you once again.  
Kind regards,  
Lt. S. Reid  
London

\---- 

September 19, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut 

Dear Lt. Reid,

You know where Evan is buried? Can you tell me where?

I’m not convinced it’s wise to allow a dead man and a saucy broad’s opinion to occupy your thoughts so much, but I suppose you do what you must in wartime.

When you see Evan, tell him I said he’s still a sucker, just like he was the day he ran away to fly planes in a war that wasn’t ours yet. And tell him I miss him.

Regards,  
Emily. E. Prentiss

\---- 

October 1, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

Yes, I know where Evan is buried, and no, I cannot tell you the exact location. I’m sorry that I’ve failed you once more in this, but know that I deny you this information with a heavy heart, and because you’ve motivated me to excel at my work. Oh, life is full of irony, isn’t it? I did see him recently, and I make a point of going to his grave whenever my unit is close to where he rests. I’ve paid a local boy to trim the verge around his headstone and to place flowers when he can. I’ve also made sure that he will be found when this is all over – either by me or someone in my place – and sent home to you.

Did Evan really run away to join the army? He told me he volunteered in late ‛40. I suspected he was underage when he entered the service as we seemed to be close in age. I was just shy of my eighteenth birthday when SIS recruited me. 

The next time I see him I’ll let him know that you think his choice was a lame duck, but I suspect that he’d respond with something like, “Nuts to that!” before arguing with you until you were blue in the face. You couldn’t tell Evan Prentiss anything.

I’m sure he misses you too.

Kind regards,  
Lt. S. Reid  
London

\---- 

October 22, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Lt. Reid,

I guess you did know Evan well after all! He was the most contrary, argumentative s.o.b. I ever had the misfortune to share a childhood bedroom with. Of course, Mom thought the sun rose and set by him… He did run away without telling us, but he was always headed in that direction. It wasn’t such a shock. Our uncle had a farm in South Carolina and after he took Evan up in his crop duster one day, the kid was never the same. Got bit by the flying bug hard. Mom was never going to allow flight lessons, so the army was his only option. I envied that he knew what he wanted from such an early age, and that he went straight for it. I just wish his dream had been less dangerous. Why anyone chooses to leave the ground only to be perilously held at bay from a gruesome death by aluminum and propellers is beyond me. Boys are just sloppy, silly cusses – all of them.

And what about you? How on earth did you get roped into a war before you were eighteen? I thought English parents had more sense than that. If you tell me you volunteered as well, I wash my hands of your entire sex. Who needs your silly heroics? No wonder why we can’t solve this war! All of this nationalistic posturing is why I can’t get fresh eggs or stockings anymore. And my hands have been ruined by engine grease. Ugh!

It is kind of you, however, to see to Evan’s grave. I shall tell Mom about that and, who knows? She might even crack a smile at it. If she can fit it between her war bond parties and games of bridge.

Nevermind. I don’t know why I told you all of this. I guess I needed something to do. Or someone to talk to.

Halloween’s coming soon. It used to be my favorite time of year. All the local kids are dressing up like Germans instead of ghouls and ghosts. Will the world ever be normal again? I wonder…

Regards,  
Emily E. Prentiss

\---- 

November 1, 1942

Dear Miss Prentiss,

Your last letter was… I feel awkward asking this but, are you all right? There’s not much I can do if you are not, but I guess I’d still like to know the answer.

In response to your question, I did not volunteer, though I was not conscripted either. It’s a complicated situation. Also, I am American, not British, even though I am working for the British Army. See? Complicated.

I’m from a meager town in Nevada called Las Vegas. Most likely, you haven’t heard of it. There’s not much there to recommend it, and no real reason to go back. I have what is called an ‘accelerated aptitude’ and graduated from college at fourteen. I was teaching advanced mathematics on the west coast when Army Intelligence came knocking back in ‛38. America wasn’t in the war yet, but many knew we eventually would be. I was aggressively convinced that it was my patriotic duty to lend my skills to the code-breaking efforts of the British SIS. I was sent to London and trained, thinking that all I’d ever do was decode cyphers. But a new offensive was launched – using SIS agents with covert tactics – and because the attrition rate is so high for these missions, eventually even I was put forth as a candidate. I technically had all the training I needed, but… it’s complicated.

So, there you have it. I am a twenty-one-year-old American working for the British. The Tommies resent me. The Yanks seem to think that I think I’m better than them. The Frogs despise being used for information while the Allies fail to liberate them, and the Krauts just shoot everyone on sight not wearing a Nazi uniform. The Italians are vicious, the Russians seem exhausted, and everyone else is just trying to find a safe place to hide. And I’m in the middle of it – a mathematician – trying to do something that matters and keeping my team alive in the process.

It’s a lot, and my story isn’t unique. We’re all too young, all growing up too harshly and too fast. You wonder if the world will ever be right again? I wonder that too. All the time. How could you not? And what no one tells you is, it’s all right to be scared about that. That’s a perfectly sane reaction to the insanity around you. But you cannot let it paralyze you. Don’t focus on the big picture. Just figure out how to put one foot in front of the other. Just fix what’s in front of you and move on to the next task. That’s what I do, and if I do it often enough, I’ll get to the big picture eventually. Don’t lose hope, Miss Prentiss.

And not for nothing, but making the details of my enlistment a litmus test for the entire male sex is a terrible pressure to put on a Joe! I hope I passed muster…

You seem unusually opinionated about this war for a lady (please don’t take offense – I admire a woman who knows her mind. I just haven’t seen a lot of that). Your comments are not the ordinary propaganda that so many spout back like trained parrots. Are you involved in the war efforts at home? You mentioned engine grease and war bond parties. 

Perhaps this will come off as bold, but… if you want someone to talk to, I’m happy to listen (or read in this case). This war is terrifying, but also lonely with large swaths of nothing to occupy the mind. Soldiers only think of what it’s like being a soldier, but it occurs to me that this same mix of terror and loneliness probably plagues those at home as well. I cannot promise timely replies, and I often won’t be able to talk about what I’m doing, which might make the conversation a bit one-sided. But I’ll always respond when I’m able. If you want. Maybe we can help each other.

 

I’ve just reread this and realized that I’m asking you to correspond with a man you’ve never met who is responsible for your brother’s death. _And_ you’ve never made any express wish to hear from me. I just keep writing back. I’m sorry – this whole thing is ridiculous. I apologize for being forward. I just enjoy getting mail once in a while.

Kind regards,  
Lt. S. Reid  
London

\---- 

November 15, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut

Lt. Reid,  
Listen, if we’re going to do this, I think you’d better start calling me Emily.

The ruination of my hands happened because I used to work in the motor pool at the local base. I’ve been fiddling with engines since my Dad’s Packard Twelve proved that money doesn’t always buy you competency. Since boys are getting drafted left, right, and center, anyone capable gets slotted wherever they are needed, girdles notwithstanding. Now I work on planes. The mechanics are the same as cars, just a lot bigger.

So, are you a legitimate genius, or something? Done college by fourteen… no fooling?

Regards,  
Emily

\---- 

December 21, 1942

Dear Emily,

It’s nice to call you by your first name.

Apologies for the delayed reply (I hope you didn’t think badly of me after my impulsive offer, and then the near-silence). I’ve been in France for a month – I just got to Dover an hour ago. My boots are floating with Dunkirk sand and I’ve caught a vicious cold from some brandy smuggler in Amiens. But, I suppose, things could be worse, couldn’t they? Perspective is important. I will be dry soon, and fed, and there is a letter from you.

To answer your question: I guess I’m a genius, though that conclusion could easily be called into doubt by the fact I was roped into a foreign spy school at seventeen. Not terribly smart. But that’s not nearly as fascinating as corresponding with a real-life Rosie the Riveter! I can’t even make a toaster work, and you can build jet engines? I think you’re probably the genius here. What did you do before the war? Were you in college? I know Evan had a good education. I can only assume you had the same as well… College seems so far away now – like it happened in another life. I liked teaching. I thought it was my purpose. Now, well… now I suppose my purpose is to survive, and then figure out where I belong in the aftermath.

I’ve seen English women queuing up for work in factories here. I’ve seen them zipping around the Home Office buildings, all furrowed brows and file folders and serious as stones. There are even lady SIS agents – I met them while training. It’s amazing that, almost overnight, women joined the workforce seamlessly and no one batted an eyelash at it. Why have we, as a society, fought this for so long? I can only hope that it continues after the war – I see no reason why it shouldn’t. And even if there is a backlash against it, we cannot unwrite this chapter. Things will change. It might be the only good thing that comes out of the war.

Oh dear. I’m babbling. You should know that I babble. It’s a terrible habit, and quite a liability for a covert agent. How did I ever get here?

Anyway, France is cold and miserable. It’s like the whole country is a giant bog waiting to suck you down and trap your boots in muck. I think this winter will be bad – a killing one for many. The towns I pass through – so many are malnourished, if not outright starving. Nothing is fresh – people are living off of wine and last year’s potatoes. The forests keep getting pushed back further and further as locals chop down whatever they can for fuel and fire. I feel guilty for having rations – I usually give them away within a few days. Who can say no to a starving child? But that means that I’m usually starving myself by the time I get back. In Dunkirk, I saw a group of people dragging a dead cavalry horse through the streets. They were all lit with this… manic joy at the idea of horsemeat for dinner. I had to stop them – it was clear that the horse had been shot because it was rabid. But they were angry and defensive. I guess they thought I wanted the horse for myself. I have no idea if they ended up eating it. _This_ is what really bothers me about the war: it’s turning us all feral.

Well, I just brought the whole joint down, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I just think these things all the time and never say anything. I’m dizzy with the freedom to tell another person about what I see.

Tell me what home is like (your home). I haven’t been stateside in over two years. I’m not sure I’d recognize it (and I’d probably kill for a cup of coffee). Tell me what’s changed, and what’s the same. Tell me how you spend your days.

I’m returning to France around the 28th, and I don’t know how long I’ll be gone for this time. You’ll probably receive this letter as I land. I will write down things as I go and see if I can get them out from France. It’s not very reliable, but sometimes I can manage it – other intelligence teams heading back to England, resistance smugglers, the odd Allied patrol unit… it’s like a daisy chain of communication. Anyway, if it can’t be done, I will write you as soon as I get back, just like now. Either way, it’s pleasant to have something to look forward to.

Oh, and today is the Winter Solstice! The longest night of the year in the northern hemisphere. In pagan times, the evening was marked with a hearty meal and libation to the natural gods who settled into sleep in the coldness of winter. People brought fir and cedar boughs into their homes, close to their hearths, in a display of protection for the flora that slept in hibernation with their gods. It was a time for pulling close, huddling before a fire, and being grateful for those you loved in the quiet stillness. I’ve always cherished that idea – there’s magic in it. If only the world were still now. Happy Solstice, Emily, and Happy Christmas after that. May the gods sleep well and wake us from our winter sooner rather than later.

Warmest regards,  
Spencer  
Dover

\---- 

December 26, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

The postal service must be bucking for a promotion – your letter arrived today. I thought I’d send something quickly back, in case Lady Luck and the U.S.P.S. look upon me favorably. Merry Christmas and good luck in France. Don’t worry about writing to me. I know you’ll do it when you can.

I have enclosed a clipping from the cedar hedge in our garden to comfort your sleepy, pagan gods.

Stay warm,  
Emily

\---- 

December 29, 1942  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

You’ll be in France now, I suppose. Well, this letter will be waiting for you when you return.

Your last letter was quite the read! I assume you’ve been holding back in all of your previous correspondence. It’s fine if you babble. At least you babble about interesting topics, unlike the drips over here, all bemoaning the state of ration cards and their lamentable 4F statuses. I can’t tell you the last interesting conversation I’ve had, truly. 

I’m going to take a moment to point out that I think you might be oversimplifying the battle to get women into the workforce. Yes, I agree that it has happened quickly and well due to the war, but I do not agree that things will remain this way when the war ends. We are welcomed because there is no other choice at the moment. When there _is_ a choice, we will not be chosen, and we will be criticized for our ‘unfeminine’ ambition when we complain. I think you have to be a woman to appreciate how men see us as aliens. Sure, we’re occasionally sexy aliens, or good mother aliens, and in rare instances, trusted friend aliens – but we will always be seen as _others_ , not male, not equal because we are not the same. While I think equality is the only way forward, I do not have the same optimism that you do about it happening soon. We will have to change how we think – all of us – and that does not happen overnight (or, when it does, it turns into fascism). What I will say is that it’s refreshing to hear such a progressive attitude coming from a man. I appreciate it, even if I think it a tad naïve.

I guess it’s obvious that I went to college. That’s the privilege of money, I suppose. Evan never made it to college, so Mom did the next best thing and sent her _other_ child instead. I spent two years at Vassar before the war shut it down. Educating women wasn’t viewed as a priority in the national interests with Krauts and Japs threatening from all sides. I’m twenty-six now, and with no end to the war in sight, who knows if I’ll ever have a chance to finish my degree. Though, if I end up a spinster, teaching might be the only thing I’m good for. Or I’ll become an auto mechanic. Damn them all, and my mother too! I’ll withstand the lesbian jokes and open a small garage, making sure to be so constantly covered in grease and brake fluid that no man will dare challenge me – haha! Oh well, a dame can dream…

Life at home is… a lot of waiting, and passing the time while doing that waiting. We’re all waiting for different things, of course. Mom was waiting for Evan to come home so she could chew him out for disappointing her. I was waiting for him too, and now I’m waiting to feel better about that never happening. I’m also waiting to discover what’s next for me, because until Evan died, I sorta seemed comfortable tying my fate to his. I thought, whatever we did after the war, we’d do it together. He was my best and only true friend, and I’m uncertain how to move forward without him beside me – like he was my counterweight and I’m hopelessly lopsided now. 

Still others are waiting for their sons to come home, or their fellas – a lot of girls working at the base are doing it so they don’t go scooters at home secretly fearing the arrival of a telegram from the Army. Others are waiting for the news the war is over – one way or another – and dreading the thought of figuring out what’s next. Because that’s daunting too, isn’t it? There’s a lot of passive dread at home, even though there are no bombs, no starving children, no bloody corpses in the streets. It’s as if everyone here is walking around with their own sword of Damocles hanging over them – one false step and we might all end up headless. 

Oh, and automatons are everywhere and everything has wheels now. Even shoes – they call them ‘roller hoofers’ and you can move faster than buses in them if you work them right. 

I’m kidding. Things are mostly the same here as when you left, I’m sure. Less vegetables and gas, but more hooch and movies to make up for it. I go to the movies a lot. You can go alone and no one thinks it’s strange. You don’t need friends to sit in the dark. I like gangster flicks and the animated things Walt Disney makes. I think I went to see _Fantasia_ a dozen times when it came out. Movies make the world seem more beautiful than it really is.

Other than that, there’s just work at the base, music clubs when there’s a band worth seeing, and local dances sponsored by homefront groups to boost conscript morale. I don’t care for those so much, though I dearly love to dance, but the girls from the base usually drag me to a few or my mother guilts me into it as my ‘patriotic duty’. As if my only wartime value is as a vessel to be manhandled by tipsy grunts while being stood upon. 

If I had my way, my ‘patriotic duty’ would be finding my way to Europe and making a difference there somehow. After all, I have a certain set of skills and no one save Mother who would miss me if I left. I like the work I do, but it doesn’t seem like much in light of what soldiers or men like you are doing in this war. I’m scared, of course, but not scared enough to hide away – I guess I’m like Evan that way. But, unlike him, my sex prevents me from doing anything useful. The motor pool girls tell me to find a nice Joe and give him something to live for by marrying him. To pop out a kid or two and contribute that way. But it’s so demeaning to be reduced to childbearing alone. I can’t stand it! I want adventure and meaningful pursuits and to be more than just a support system for another person. That’s not a popular attitude around here, so sometimes I give in and stop fighting against everyone’s expectations, and that’s how I end up at boring dances with GI boot marks all over my peep-toes.

You apologized for bringing the joint down before – I guess we both do that, huh? You probably wanted a sunnier tale of home. I’m sorry. But if it makes you feel any better, I won’t mind if your anecdotes turn dark. I’d rather know what’s really going on than live off the newsreel pablum we get here. I’ll make you a deal: if you don’t pull any punches, neither will I. That’s how Evan and I always operated, and I’ve never regretted that principle. I know you can’t tell me what you are doing over there, but tell me about France. I always wanted to go and who knows if I’ll ever get a chance to now. Lend me your senses and tell me what it’s like.

I’ll put this in the post and write again when I have something new to add (though the days are mostly work and trips to the library – rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat…). Clearly, I need a project. Hmmm, must put my mind to that…

I hope that someone fed you for Christmas. Surely not everyone has turned into an animal over there.

Warm regards,  
Emily

\---- 

January 1, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

I hope you can read this. It’s dark and I’ve had a bit of champagne.

IT’S A NEW YEAR! Maybe this is the one that will change everything.

By the way, I found a project. A fella just back from overseas was selling his BSA M20 (his wife didn’t approve), and now it’s mine. It’s beat to hell and needs a lot of work but it’s nothing I can’t handle. Once I shine her up like a new penny I can go where I like – even up to New York to see Count Basie if I want!

Mother is apoplectic. I’m so happy.

Happy New Year & stay safe,  
Emily

\---- 

January 31, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

Evan has been gone for one year today. I know you haven’t forgotten. 

I find myself in a strange place. I miss him terribly, like a chunk of me has been ripped away and the wind keeps blowing through the void making the edges sting when I move. And I still hate you a little for being the agent of his absence, even though I’m separated enough from the grief now to understand that feeling isn’t wholly true or fair. But I’m also oddly glad of you. Writing these letters is cathartic in its own way. Perhaps you don’t feel the same – perhaps I shall never hear from you again. The feeling remains, regardless of whether anyone reads these missives or not, I suppose. You mentioned it was nice to have something to look forward to, and I find that I agree about that. I haven’t been looking forward to much in a long time. Even if I’ve made you out to be someone else in my mind, even if something happened to you and you’re gone now, this has been quite an experience.

All in all, a very confusing day here.

May the sun be shining on you wherever you are,  
Emily

\---- 

[collected letters in a single envelope]

December 25, 1942

Dear Emily,

Merry Christmas! Somehow the cook managed to find a goose. My team has greasy fingers and full bellies, which is more than we had last Christmas. We also have a new commanding officer. He’s American – which adds to the overall confusion – but it also makes me less anomalous. His name is Lt.-Colonel Aaron Hotchner and he was a lawyer before he joined up. A very serious, sullen fellow. Even so, he came by the base in Dover to meet us personally. He brought us gifts as well. He gave me a pocket knife – very practical and appreciated.

I hope your Christmas was surprising as well. Did you get snow? It’s cold here and there will certainly be snow in France when we get there. I’ve spent a small fortune on wool socks packing them into every spare inch I can find in my bags. A gaggle of local children came by caroling last night in spite of the blackout ban. They sang in the dark and it was ethereal – like the stars were singing to us. I saw a couple of fellas get glassy-eyed afterwards, thinking of home no doubt. I don’t have any family left, so I just found it beautiful for its own sake. Perhaps that was my Christmas gift as well. 

I’m not much for Christian rituals, but the pagan underpinnings fascinate me. I told you about the Winter Solstice, but I also love the dichotomy of Saint Nicholas and Krampus from the Bavarian traditions. Saint Nicholas has been rolled into the Father Christmas/Santa Claus folklore, but Krampus is his opposite and quite forgotten. He punishes naughty children and frightens them into good behavior. He is demonic in appearance with a goat’s hind quarters and head, and he beats offending children with a switch of birch branches on the same night that Saint Nicholas delivers his bounty. It is said that he can only be appeased with an offering of schnapps and wild dancing, both of which sounds favorable on a cold winter’s night. Krampusnacht is when he roams freely, and that is usually at the beginning of December, but many European towns celebrate him from the advent of December right through the New Year, just to be safe. So, fortified brandy and dancing for all, then, huh? Sometimes the old ways just seem better, don’t they? Lift a glass to dear, misunderstood Krampus, or face the wrath of a birch switch. I’ve sketched him in the margin for your further enlightenment, as I am very fond of him.

Have a wonderful Christmas, Emily.

Warmest regards,  
Spencer  
Dover

 

January 1, 1943

Dear Emily,

Just a quick note today to wish you a Happy New Year. Northern France is in a terrible state. My team spent four nights sleeping rough after we landed just to avoid the German patrols. Maybe they’ve stepped them up just to keep warm but, regardless, it makes moving around more trying. Tonight we’ve finally found a friendly sanctuary, and, blissfully, a fire. I can almost feel my fingers once more. Tomorrow we shall push on, using the darkness of the new moon as cover. This is not how I imagined wars were fought – I certainly didn’t get that impression from the history books I scoured as a child. It’s a hell of a lot of walking and boredom scattered with brilliant moments of extreme terror. Luckily, I seem to excel under extreme terror. But enough about that…

I must sleep. I hope your New Year’s celebrations were more festive,  
Spencer  
N. France

 

January 18, 1943

Dear Emily,

A few words now, and only in pencil. It’s too cold for the ink to run.

Sometimes I forget where I am. Like this morning. It snowed in the night and when the sun rose, the whole world was bright and crystalline-perfect. Nothing but deer prints in the snow, and field mice. It’s so quiet I imagine I can hear the trees whispering plans to each other in the distance. I grew up in the desert – this is like another world to me. It’s so beautiful, Emily. The war is so far away in this moment. It makes me want to run into that forest and never come back. Just live in the deep hush of trees with the rabbits and the wolves…

The world is perfect without us.

Spencer

 

February 1, 1943

Dear Emily,

Will you forgive me a terrible story? It is about love and it ends in death. I feel like I should shield you from things like this but… I _have_ to tell someone or I think I’ll go mad.

A girl fell in love with me. Her name is Aline and she is eleven years old. She is the daughter of a farmer who gives my team shelter in his barn from time to time. She is pretty with apple-bright cheeks and a quick grin – the pride of her father’s regard, to be sure. I’m so tall that she constantly asks to ride on my shoulders – she says she can touch the clouds when I carry her – and I’m charmed enough by her spirit to oblige her frequently. I bring her chocolate when I can (I have a sweet tooth, and a softness for her, apparently), and she giggles and says, “Merci, médecin géant”. Such a happy, bright little soul – my team mocked me for my ‘tiny girlfriend’. I saw no harm in it, imagining she’d forget me in time. 

Her father’s farm has been mostly untouched by the war, which is why we’ve passed through it as often as we have. Perhaps our complacency was a mistake.

Two nights ago, we woke in the barn to gunfire. My team was up and away in under thirty seconds, and that was fortunate. The barn was aflame in no time – we watched it burn while hiding under long winter grasses at the edge of the property. An SS unit was there – not a regular German patrol. Someone must have noticed us coming and going, or they suspected Aline’s father was part of the resistance. He wasn’t – just a man trying to survive _and_ do the right thing simultaneously. The gunfire was an SS officer shooting the farm dogs, then the horses, and finally their dairy cow. Then they dragged Aline and her father out into the snow and set fire to their house, making them watch. The flames lit their faces clear as day, and I’ll never forget the expression on Alain’s face – it was confusion. He expected to die and didn’t know why they hadn’t shot him right away. Aline just cried while an SS soldier told her to shut up in German. 

There was no point to any of it. The SS didn’t even ask Alain anything. They just forced him to watch everything he owned burn, and when that was done they shot him in the back of the head. I didn’t realize I was running until I heard the bullets zipping past me – both Nazis shooting at me and my team trying to cover my boneheaded move. I pulled my Browning and shot the two soldiers closest to Aline as I ran – I am amazed the shots found their targets. I didn’t have eyes for anyone but Aline, and it is doubtless that I am alive to write this today because of the superior marksmanship of my team. I collected Aline up and ran for the forest again, taking a round in the shoulder that would’ve ended her if I hadn’t been in the way. My team followed close behind, leaving more dead SS soldiers than live ones. The surprise attack and the cover of night concealed our identities, but it was a near thing. The shock on the Germans’ faces convinces me that they weren’t searching for us, making the whole scene even more meaningless.

We trekked through the forest for a day until we found a village with a doctor. I carried Aline the whole time, in spite of my shoulder. She cried quietly until she passed out, then she cried again when I tried to hand her over to a local woman who agreed to take her in. She had no one left, you see. She wouldn’t let me go, clinging to my muddy trousers and sobbing, “Ne me quitte pas, géant! Emmène-moi avec toi!”. Oh, Emily – she broke my heart, and I broke hers when I pulled her hands from me and walked away. This happy, bright soul, happy and bright no more. Because of me. It is Evan all over again, but so much worse. Evan made a choice to risk; Aline didn’t.

I’ve always hoped that someday I’d be a father, but I’m not sure I deserve that now. I’ve ruined a child’s life – taken everything from her and left her alone. She’ll always remember the stranger who made her blush and gave her chocolate, who also watched her father be murdered and did nothing about it. Why didn’t I act quicker? Why didn’t I bring Aline to London, to relative safety? It’s all I can think about over and over and over. Regrets everywhere, all around me.

I can’t sleep. My shoulder burns. You will hate this letter when you receive it, but I’ll send it anyway. 

Spencer

\---- 

February 20, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

I am writing this quickly and then racing to post it in the afternoon mail. When you receive it, write to me immediately.

I got your letter package. I read it all. You are not to blame for what happened to Aline. You gave her a chance to LIVE. In time, _that_ is what she’ll remember. How could that not be a worthy act?

I do not hate you. I am mesmerized by the horror you are facing, amazed by your self-reflection and capability in its path. And you are only twenty-one. You are not the man I thought you were when you first wrote to me – I couldn’t picture _that_ man running into gunfire to save a child. I better understand why you and Evan became friends.

Please write me back. I am worried.

Urgently,  
Emily

\---- 

March 8, 1943

Dear Emily,

I’m actually twenty-two, but only because today is my birthday.

Please do not be worried. I did not mean for that to happen. I shouldn’t have written to you in such a state. The things I see during missions can be so extreme, so traumatic, that I hardly know how I’ll go on. Then, I return to England and the memories fall into context, or maybe I do. Some cannot handle what they see. “Shellshock” doesn’t seem like an appropriate term for it, but it’s what the medics call it. I keep expecting it to happen to me – I’ve led a sheltered life, after all – but I’ve found ways to annex the experiences, to put them into boxes in my mind, if you will, so that I can look at them again when I’m calmer. I will forget nothing (that is another aspect of my accelerated aptitude – a photographic memory) but I can strive to put things into perspective. Mom warned me that I had a soft heart, and to protect it fiercely. Thank goodness she’s no longer alive to worry about me in the work that I do.

But also, thank you for your worry. I was strangely touched by the “Urgently” in your letter. 

I have received all of your letters as well (such a wonderful thing to return to – that, and a warm bath), and I have so much to say. But I feel I should not make you wait for a response longer than necessary, so I’ll shorten things to the highlights.

1\. You may have a point about my naiveté, but why CAN’T you run your own garage when the war is over?

2\. I’m not good with people, so it’s no secret why I don’t have many friends. If your friends only encourage you to do things that don’t suit you, are they really your friends to begin with? If you don’t want the life that’s expected of you, it seems logical to forego peer association that pushes you in a direction opposite to your desires. Watching movies alone or studying at the library seems… sensible to me, until more appropriate friends appear in your life. I have no doubt that they will. Also, I wouldn’t allow strange, drunk men to maul you publicly simply because it’s the current cultural norm. I’ve been to some of those dances (though I can’t dance – I usually stand in the corner until someone offers some beer or tobacco) and don’t think they do much morale boosting other than for lothario types who don’t need the help in the first place.

3\. I agree to your deal: truth for truth. Thank you – that makes me feel better. Also, I find your insights into the world at home as mesmerizing as you claim mine are. Please continue being candid.

4\. You own a motorcycle! You are becoming the brassiest dame I’ve ever heard about. I’m so impressed. Your poor mother…

Okay, off into the mail this goes. Write again soon!

Appreciatively,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

March 28, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

I have enclosed a belated birthday gift for you: six Hershey bars for your sweet tooth. I had to hoard some ration cards, and then find a guy who could get his hands on the good stuff (not that New Haven has much of a black market, but if slightly-suspect transactions down by a pier make the treat sweeter to you, so be it. Whatever gets your motor running.). So, Happy Twenty-two, Lieutenant! Some illicit chocolate for you!

I must admit that the tone of your last letter came as a relief to me. Having said that, I hope you’ll continue to write whatever strikes you in the moment. Now that I understand your process a little, I, too, can also put your stories into perspective. I suppose I’m morbidly curious about these experiences I’ll never have. And if telling me about them can ease you of their burden, well, that sounds like we both get something out of it. I found your observations to be haunting, beautiful – even the terrible story about Aline. You have a talent for seeing things, I think, and perhaps seeing _beneath_ them, if that makes any sense. Maybe it’s the soft heart your mother worried over, or maybe it’s just the way you are. Either way, don’t apologize for it, and don’t hide it away.

May I ask what happened to your family? It makes me sad to think you’re alone in the world at twenty-two. That’s far too young. What about a special girl somewhere? I’ve seen how wartime makes relationships more urgent, and though some say it’s an improper modern attitude, I think it’s unnecessarily cruel to deny young people this happiness when any day could be their last one. So many conventions don’t make much sense now.

Speaking of silly conventions, thank you for your encouragement of my ‘unfeminine’ ideas. I talk all big and fearless, but in reality, I’m afraid of what people will say if I do exactly what I want. Mother already wanders around in a fog of constant disappointment about me, but that’s not the worst of it. Ladies in town shun the motor pool girls for their work and mannish clothes. They whisper that we’re taking away work from the men here at home, or that we’re getting big heads and troubling ideas that are ‘unamerican’. Some Joes think we’re all right, but many think we’re uppity or some vanguard of a lesbian army in their midst. It’s so screwy. And some men think our willingness to work means that we’re _willing_ in every way, if you catch my drift. Last month, my gal pal, Doris went to a dance on the base and two airmen thought a couple of dances meant she was theirs for the evening. She screamed and got away, but she won’t go anywhere now without a bunch of us girls alongside her. One of the girls commented that men are afraid women will take what’s theirs, but women are afraid that men will kill them. It’s so unfair – we just want to help and do what we’re good at. Nothing more. Sometimes I feel as though everyone looks at me as if I wore a swastika on my arm too.

But, in happier news: I finished the bike! She goes like stink now, and smooth as silk. The freedom is wondrous. Some nights I take her out when I can’t sleep and speed her down unlit roads just to feel the wind in my hair. It’s not sensible, I know, but, jeez, it feels amazing, Spencer. If I could feel that good, for a few minutes every day, I’d be a contented dame my whole life long. It’s like… I understand what I’m for when I’m riding like that. Alone, by my own power, because of the skill of my hands and mind… I dunno. In those moments I’m never scared, never unsure. Maybe I just sound crazy.

Anyway, enough of this. I’ll put this in the post now. Are you off to France again soon? Do you know how long you’ll be gone for this time? If you are already away, take care and don’t get shot again. It would be upsetting to lose a pen-friend I’ve spent so much time breaking in to Nazi target practice.

Best wishes,  
Emily

p.s. I meant to ask before, Aline called you “médecin géant”. You said you’re tall, so I get the ‘giant’ part, but why did she call you ‘doctor’? My French is pretty useless, so maybe I’m misunderstanding…

\---- 

April 7, 1943

Dear Emily,

Thank you so much for the chocolate! I hope you don’t mind, but I shared the bars around: 3 went to my team, 2 were donated to other units shipping off to Europe (chocolate is almost like currency in some places – very handy), and I kept one, decadently, for myself. It was glorious.

I’m in London for now. Something happened after Aline’s mission (nothing involving me or my team, just a general shift in the situation abroad which I can’t elaborate on), and now we’re all pulled back to HQ to re-strategize. Until we get fresh orders, we’ve been sent off to do other work. I’m currently back to my previous decoding duties, which is both a relief and strangely dull at the same time. It’s given my shoulder an opportunity to heal up, and, of course, I get regular access to the mail!

To answer your postscript question: I am a doctor. Not a medical one, obviously, but I have doctorates in mathematics and advanced chemistry. I told Aline about that – I guess I was showing off a bit. We aren’t permitted to append our official titles with civilian honors unless one works in the medical corps (where a medical PhD is expected). Hence, I’m just Lt. Reid until I’m discharged. 

You speak French? Tu es plein de surprises! I speak it better than I write it, and my verbal French is functional at best. Everyone tells me my accent is terrible. I’ve picked up a great deal of German as well as some Italian, but it only improves if you use it regularly. It’s unlikely I’ll strike up any sudden friendships with Germans or Italians in the near future.

As to your other question about my family, I am an only child and my parents are gone. Father abandoned us when I was young. To be truthful, I do not know if he is alive or dead, but since he was never around, I just assume he’s dead. It’s easier. Mom died in a house fire during my first year at college. She was mentally unwell her whole life and that often manifested in a sort of negligent forgetfulness. She left the stove on one night and that was it. I try not to think about it – I loved her dearly despite her illness and have always felt guilt that I wasn’t there to prevent the tragedy. I wanted her to be safe but let her be on her own while I lived on campus. Asylums are terrible places and she promised me she’d be careful. But I was just a boy back then, even with my special skills, and there was only so much I could do for her. I’ve been on my own since her death. 

And, no, there’s no special girl. Never has been, really. I’m hopelessly awkward around the fairer sex and have never managed more than some forgettable fumblings. I can’t talk to girls (unless I’m interrogating them). Even with the help of the uniform, I’m not much to look at – all arms and legs and not much else. You wouldn’t notice me if I was standing right in front of you, I’m sure.

Emily, your description of the attitudes surrounding you upsets me a little. Especially your anecdote about Doris. Please be careful. That probably sounds condescending and paternal of me, but I’m just concerned for a friend and too hopelessly far away to do anything more than advise caution. It’s frustrating. (Also, I hope you don’t mind that I consider you a friend). If anything were to happen to you…

The flip side to this worry and caution I feel is pride and excitement in your accomplishments. You’d probably say, “it’s just a motorcycle”, but it isn’t. It’s emblematic of a dream you are tentatively reaching for. While I understand your hesitation – I believe your fears are real even if I can never know what it’s like to walk in your shoes – surely the joy you feel in those dizzying moments alone is proof that you are heading down the right path. The way you described it, Emily… I’d be doing you a disservice to dissuade you from it. It sounds like fulfillment to me. We should all be allowed that. I’ll write it down now – in ink, so I can’t take it back later – you should follow your dream, however hard, wherever it takes you. I believe, of all the women I’ve met, you have brass enough to succeed. You’re smart, gutsy, capable, self-aware, independent… I believe you could do anything you set your mind to. Truly. Don’t let fear shackle you. If any ~~man~~ one tells you different, well, just steer clear of them, I guess.

Spring is finally here and it appears to have lightened everyone’s mood, even if it’s raining constantly. I don’t know how long I’ll be in England – right now, no one can say one way or the other. Some days I feel as close to normal as I’ve been in over three years, tooling through London on my bicycle, eating regularly, and with an absence of gunfire… even the memory of how much damage was done to this city doesn’t dim one’s optimism right now. People are out and about, just carrying on. It’s inspiring. Maybe this _will_ be the year we end this awful struggle.

Oh, by the way, I found a theatre playing _Fantasia_ here. What a creative amusement! So pretty and colorful, and you can’t argue about the music – Bach, Tchaikovsky, Beethoven, Stravinsky… I think I liked the dancing mushrooms the best – I’ll probably never look at fungi in quite the same way again. Which part was your favorite?

Okay, well, off into the post this goes. I’ll write again soon, as I now have the luxury of time!

Fondest wishes,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

April 14, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

Since you are busy enabling my gender equality fantasies and buttering me up with flattery, I thought I’d send you a photo of me and Big-Mouth Betty as a reward (Big-Mouth Betty is what I’ve named my bike. Fitting, don’t you think?). Doris wouldn’t let me clean up before she snapped the pic, so excuse the grease smudges and my dungarees. And look at what the wind has done to my hair! Oh well… that’s me, I guess. But Betty’s a beaut, isn’t she? 

Thank you for your kind encouragement. It means a great deal. And I promise that I’m being careful (or as much as I ever manage, at any rate). I’m already too familiar with heavy-handed men and have no desire to broaden that understanding. As for the catty local skirts, well, I can handle them. I doubt any of them want to see me hurt – scandalizing me should be enough and ensure that any local Joe will be put off me in the process. No great loss. 

Oh, Spencer, I’m so sorry to hear of your mother! What a story – and to happen to you while you were still so young. You must have been lonely for such a long time. I don’t think I would’ve turned out as stroppy as I am if it hadn’t been for Evan. He was my little rock growing up, even though he was younger than me. But you did everything by yourself. It makes your accomplishments that much more impressive. I’m sorry that I ever thought you were less than you are.

And you’re _a doctor?_ Twice over! I hardly know where to begin. These letters must be so dull to you. Me and my mechanical tinkerings and liberal ideals… I didn’t even graduate college. 

Perhaps I can deflect from my embarrassment by pointing out that you’ve been corresponding with a woman for a year now (and, yes, we are friends – how silly of you to doubt it). You evidently _can_ talk to women. I find you endlessly surprising – I’m sure many others would as well. And looks aren’t everything. They certainly help, but a keen personality, a sharp mind goes a lot further than a square jaw. In my opinion, pretty men are often like window curtains: pleasing from afar, but more times than not they’re just hiding empty rooms. Who wants an empty room, even if it’s strutting around impressively in a uniform? I think you have a lot to offer, and now it’s my turn to tell you that I believe in you as well. Think better of yourself, would you?

By the way, I now have this mental image of you, whip-thin, zipping through London on an olive-drab bicycle in uniform, head up, all optimistic about spring and Walt Disney cartoons… it’s a riot. Oh, and since you asked, my favorite part of _Fantasia_ was the Night on Bald Mountain creature. I guess I have a fondness for gothic drama, but I thought that demon was just tops! I was sad to see him driven away by the dawn… I swear that I went back just to watch that scene alone. It doesn’t surprise me at all that you liked the dancing mushrooms – haha!

Do you think there’s a possibility that you might stay in London rather than going back overseas? I know you said you find the decoding work boring, but the intelligence stuff is so dangerous. The privations, the violence, the way you just have to withstand it and keep going… I guess I’d prefer to have you safe. That sounds cowardly, doesn’t it? I’m not suggesting that – I think you are the opposite of a coward. Maybe I just feel cowardly in the shadow of what you do. Fixing jet engines back home doesn’t rate. If I’m going to risk social censure, it should be for something greater than practice jets for newly-minted flyboys or patching up ancient cargo planes. I should be making the same effort as you – over there – the risk would seem worth it if the results were tangible. After all, don’t I have as much to lose as any man if the war goes badly? Evan died for this, for crying out loud! Ugh, I’m all over the place today – I’m sorry. Some days – more often now – I feel as though I’m itching to get out of my skin. To run away as Evan did. There’s nothing for me here – just failed expectations and gender pigeonholes to trip over. And the world is out there. Violent and unfair and dangerous – yes – but also, _waiting._ I envy you, Spencer. Your view is borderless simply because you are a man. What a thing that must be.

Oh damn! I’ll be late for my shift if I don’t wrap this up… Okay, well, tell me what London’s like. What are your favorite places? It’s another place I’ll probably never see, so…

Enjoy the spring rain,  
Emily

\---- 

April 22, 1943

Dear Emily,

Gosh. You’re a real stunner. I’m not joking. I sort of created an idea of you in my mind based on your letters and, well… now I’m all flustered because I know what you _really_ look like. My mouth is full of cotton balls and I think I’m probably blushing too – just looking at your picture! Why didn’t you tell me you were so pretty?

This is embarrassing but, when I opened your letter Lt-Colonel Hotchner was in the barracks checking up on his various teams. He saw your photo and said he wasn’t aware that there were Rosie the Riveter pin-ups floating around. I managed to choke out that you weren’t a pin-up, you were a friend from back home, and then he congratulated me for having such a pretty girl waiting for me. And I couldn’t say a thing, I couldn’t tell him he was wrong. I just flapped around like a useless fish and now everyone is razzing me about you. Guys who wouldn’t give me the time of day before are suddenly talking to me, asking if you have any sisters, fellas aren’t calling me Poindexter anymore, someone even asked if having glasses helps with the ladies… I’m mortified. Everyone just sees how pretty you are and… makes assumptions. About both you and me. And they’re wrong. But even I’m having trouble now because the person you were inside my head is gone, and in its place is the same smart, sassy, brass girl, but with this _face_ and smile and movie-star looks. Ugh. This is why I’m pathetic around women…

 

Okay, I’ve calmed down and pulled myself together a bit. Sorry. You just became real in a way that you weren’t before. It’s silly, but I’m an ungainly, silly man sometimes. You’re probably angry right now that I’ve reduced you to the way that you look. I’ll do better, I promise. I like you far too much to let my stupid head get in the way of things. Just let me say once, for the record, that you are too beautiful, Emily, to come without a warning first. There – got that out of my system.

I have no idea what else I meant to include in this letter. I’ve gone completely blank. Oh dear. Okay, I guess that means I’ll put a stamp on this…

Spencer  
London

\---- 

April 30, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Spencer,

Your last letter was ridiculous from start to finish. Collect your thoughts and try again. Honestly, I’m just a woman!

Perhaps you should send me a photo as well, so we can get this out of the way.

Emily

\---- 

May 7, 1943

Dear Emily,

Once again, I’m sorry about my last letter. I can tell that you’re miffed about it. 

I will not send a photo. This is partly because of shyness, but mostly because I don’t have any. I’d have to pose for one and that just strikes me as more awkward. Here are the basics: I’m 6’1”, 170lbs, with brown hair and eyes, glasses, a slight limp from a childhood accident, and three bullet wounds from my time in France. The rest you can imagine for yourself.

Thank you for your condolences about Mom. It was a while ago but I still miss her. She was an opinionated, strong woman out of her time – a little like you. If she hadn’t been ill, I think she might have done just about anything. She was a great proponent of books and education, which is why, I suppose, I got so much of both. She would not approve of my activity in this war, however. She said that warfare was an eruption of man’s most basic instinct, which never solved anything or ever really ended. She was eerily correct, but I had to go off to war to figure that out.

Because Mom was so right about war, I wish you’d lose your desire to see more of it. I hear your yearning for adventure and newness, but this is not the place for it. The war is terrible, Emily, and Europe is a mess. I know you mean well, but if _I_ could get away from here, I would. Please don’t wish to be here amongst the ruins and death. I know that I’ve swung wildly between despair and optimism about this war in my letters, but it is a nightmare that I’m fighting, in large part, so that it won’t taint any more people than it absolutely has to. I include you in this. Maybe that’s presumptive, but… you know what? I don’t care. I want you to be safe – that’s all there is to it. If you find that unforgivably male and backward, so be it. That’s a cross I’m willing to bear. 

Please don’t mistake this impulse as a denial of your dreams – I still strongly encourage you to follow them, just… not here. Whether you realize it or not, you _are_ making a difference. Maybe it’s not showy enough for your tastes, but every flyboy you help gain his wings, every cargo that lands safely where it should, every plane that can muster one last sorte – this all matters as much as me passing notes between forces or trying to decode missives from Berlin. And what’s more, you have made a difference for me. Writing to you over the past year has given me grit when I felt exhausted, replenished me when I lost hope. Maybe I wouldn’t have made it this far without you – I don’t know. What I do know is that I moved forward a year ago for Evan’s sake, but now I do it for you. Don’t say that what you’re doing isn’t enough because it is everything to me.

And for the record, it doesn’t seem very forward-thinking to keep putting your intellect down. Who cares if you didn’t finish college? You would have if it weren’t for the war. And you can fix planes and rebuild motorcycles and argue about equality between men and women and discuss fascism. You’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever spoken with. There’s nothing remotely dull about you, and I’d appreciate it if you chose to believe me.

Also, I think Big-Mouth Betty is a grand name for a bike, and that’s she’s as glorious as her mechanic.

Since I’ve worked myself into a bit of a lather about this, I’ll try and make up for it with a drawing of the demon from Night on Bald Mountain for you. I think I got the details right even though I only saw the film once. I sort of understand why you like him – he’s terrifying and that is powerful. Much more so than my beloved Krampus. I guess this is part of why we are friends – the fanciful things in the dark still charm us.

Fondly,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

June 5, 1943

Dear Emily,

Have I offended you? Please tell me I haven’t. If my last few letters were off-putting, that was never my intention. I’m an awkward person – I told you that. Please forgive me if I somehow misspoke. I keep waiting for a letter from you and… I don’t want to seem like a sap, but I look forward to receiving them. Could you let me know how you are?

Things are fine here – more of the same. I may be sent back to France in August but the date hasn’t been set yet. The English summer is warm and I’ve been taking day trips northward to see more of the countryside. You hit a point where people disappear and all that’s left are sheep and cows and hills everywhere. It’s a fine way to get lost for a day or two. I try to find a tree and then sit beneath it reading until the sun sets, like some simple character from a pastoral novel. It is idyllic even when it rains.

Please write again soon.

Fondly,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

June 30, 1943  
New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Spencer,

I wasn’t upset, just busy, and you may be angry when you find out why (though you unwittingly inspired me to do it).

I joined the WAACs. 

When they discovered the work I was doing at the base, they made me a Technical Sergeant straight away and gave me a choice of postings. I requested London. It’s as close to the actual fight as I could get. They still won’t allow women in active theaters. My captain gave me flack about it (considering I’m new and all), but I got some guys from the base to write letters of recommendation for me and that sealed the deal. After next Monday, I’ll be in Virginia for four weeks of training, then off to England with Betty to take up my post. So, I won’t need a photo of you after all, since we can meet in person!

Mother had a rage about this, but I’d already signed the papers. She said I’d better come back or she’ll never forgive me. I told her that if I never come back, that hardly matters. It sounds cruel, I know, but by doing this I can let go of my resentment of her and her damnable expectations for me. I can be my own woman. 

I know you won’t approve, Spencer. I know you want me to stay safely in America. But if I stay safely here now, I feel that’s where I’ll remain forever. I _have_ to do this. Not because it’s war and I have some heroic deathwish, but because this feels like part of the path I spoke of. The path that _you_ encouraged me to follow. Please say you’ll meet me when I arrive in London? I’m brimming with the possibility of it all, and there’s no one who will understand it but you. Please, Spencer… it would mean so much to me.

I have enclosed my mailing address in Virginia and hope to hear from you soon. 

In anticipation,  
Emily

\---- 

July 9, 1943

Oh, Emily… no. Why???? Do you know what I’d give to be back home right now? You have a _choice_ I was never given, and THIS is what you decide?!?

 

Send me your transfer details when you get them. I’ll be there, no matter how upset this news has made me. I know better than to try and talk a Prentiss out of something.

Anxiously,  
Spencer  
London

\----


	2. Friendship

She looked around in bewilderment. There was no space to be anxious or afraid, being jostled every other second by another passing stranger. The platform at King’s Cross station was crammed with people – she never imagined so many could have so much urgent business at once. And in a city, which by her first fleeting glimpses, seemed half destroyed and half in active denial of the war to begin with. People still bombed around (poor choice of words, but an apt description), the thoroughfares filled with honking vehicles and bicycles, buses and trams whizzing past crumbling buildings and flattened factories. Everyone was so _busy_ , she found it hard to catch her breath. She’d been charmed by the bustle of Manhattan and Chicago in the past, but this was something else; an almost insistent busyness. _Carry on, nothing unusual here…_

Emily was knocked hard, almost dislodging her WAAC cap as a frowning older man mumbled, “Pardon me, miss” while eying her uniform with open disdain. Maybe it was because she was a woman, maybe it was her American clothes, or perhaps it was a condemnation of her stillness. She huffed and looked around again, but not knowing why – she was waiting on someone she couldn’t recognize. Eventually, she shuffled against the flow of the crowd until she had the station wall to her back and she was free to watch the passengers floating past her. 

Her eyes flicked to the station clock, but he wasn’t late. Not yet. Given the glut of people on the platform, he’d most likely be delayed. Her stomach tightened slightly. What would he be like in person? Would he still be upset at her decision to join the WAACs? It had been almost six weeks since he wrote and agreed to meet her when she arrived in London. There had been sporadic letters since then, but none with the luxurious candidness that had been their previous correspondence. She wondered if he actually wanted to meet her at all – perhaps their curious friendship only worked blindly through the mail, and he knew it. The idea that her physical reality might be disappointing and abruptly end this odd association secretly worried her. So much so that she hadn’t slept a wink the night before, wondering how she should talk and what to say over and over. She wasn’t sure when his opinion had come to weigh so much in her mind, but the thought that she wouldn’t measure up twisted her stomach a little tighter.

Minutes passed as she watched the stream of people and waited. She was investing far too much worry into this one aspect of her new life, and not much in the rest. Her new accommodations in a women’s-only boarding house, the obvious hostility of her commanding officer at Mildenhall, even the concern of getting lost in the tangle of London’s rail and tube system were just blips on her radar. She was so eager for new experiences that the fear which tagged along became rolled into the excitement for her. Except the fear of meeting Spencer, and that should have been the best part in all of this. She just wanted it to go well or it might sour everything else.

Minutes ticked by and eyes skimmed over her as she scanned the crowd. More than a few uniformed lads gave her a look, flicking roguish smiles before disappearing into the chaos of the station again. She sighed and lamented that all men were alike at a certain age; her uniform wasn’t flattering in the least and yet it didn’t stop them. She decided to view it in a more optimistic light, thinking that perhaps they were drawn to the idea of a woman doing her part for the war effort just like them, conveying a reckless bravery along with the typical interest. Yes, that was a nicer idea.

She caught a pair of eyes in the crowd. He was standing still watching her, and when their eyes locked he stared for a moment before ducking his gaze to his boots and hunching in on himself. She took in his details – thin, pale, not as tall as she expected, with thick, heavy spectacles that dwarfed his eyes and a plain sort of ordinariness about him that would only make him less remarkable as he aged. Something in her, previously wound tight, unspooled with a sudden gut drop; she was definitely disappointed. He glanced back up at her and offered a shy smile from under the brim of his cap, his cheeks rosy like an untested boy. She shook off her unexpected disenchantment, wondering when she’d built up an idea about his looks in her mind, and gave a cautious smile back. He swallowed visibly to see it and seemed unable to move from where he was across the platform.

 _Never mind,_ she chastised herself. _He told you he wasn’t anything to look at. Don’t be the sort of dame who can’t see past that…_

“Emily?”

She jumped at hearing her name called from beside her rather than across the platform. She turned and found herself under the slightly worried gaze of a British officer. He was tall and lean, all sharp edges in his trim uniform, and he was clutching a collection of bedraggled flowers in a grip that pulled his skin white over his knuckles. He seemed painfully young – she imagined he couldn’t muster much of a moustache – but there was something world-weary in his expression as well, like so many soldiers she’d seen since arriving overseas; they’d witnessed things they shouldn’t. And his gaze was wide and warm, entrancing her in a moment of speechlessness before she snapped out of it. There was no mistaking the recognition in them – he knew her.

_Oh gosh…_

“I’m… uh, I’m Spencer,” he stuttered nervously, offering an awkward smile as an afterthought. She just continued staring, the thing previously unwound in her spooling back up again almost painfully, and suddenly she found herself wanting to say something but finding that she couldn’t muster a sound. Lines creased around his eyes as the silence lengthened, and he licked his lips once nervously as his smile evaporated. That made her paralysis worse when the movement narrowed her focus to his cheekbones and his lips…

_He’s… oh gosh…_

“Have you been… waiting long?” he squeaked, as his cheeks pinked up and his eyes darted away from hers and then back again. His grip on the flowers became unmerciful as she watched his fingers flex. Poor flowers…

She finally managed to choke some words into being as something inside her fluttered discreetly and without her permission. “You’re not what I expected at all.”

His expression collapsed immediately, and his eyes shifted off to the side pretending to be interested in the crowd instead. His long throat bobbed once above his tie and she rushed to repair her mistake.

“I was looking for an American uniform,” she gulped, and when he turned back to face her she grinned in a way that would have set her mother’s teeth on edge. Spencer looked bewildered as his eyebrows rose above his wire-rimmed glasses. Then she doubled-down and wrapped him in a hug like he was a long-lost friend. 

“Hi. I’m Emily. Oh, it’s nice to finally meet you. I was worried we might not find each other here. It’s so busy…”

He staggered back when she launched into him, but his grip was sturdy. When she pulled back to smile at him, she found him smiling back, but still with rosy cheeks and a look of surprise plastered all over him.

“Hello,” she said again warmly when he didn’t respond right away.

“Hello, uh… yes. Hi. Lovely to meet you, for real, I mean. And, uh, in hindsight, we might have chosen as less hectic rendezvous point…” His voice petered out, oddly high, but his smile became amazing, changing his entire face in the process. Emily’s stomach hopped a little as she thought, _How could he imagine no one would notice him? That smile is gangbusters…_ Then he seemed to remember himself, shuffled his glasses up his nose with the hand holding the bouquet, showering the lenses with pollen, and then shoving them at her in all their half-wilted glory.

“These are for you.”

“Oh. How fine…” She handled them delicately but suspected they might be weeds.

“I don’t know how fine they are,” he mumbled. “I didn’t have time to find a flower vendor, so I liberated these from some Victory gardens I passed on the way here. Probably shouldn’t have told you that…”

Emily looked at the bouquet again and laughed with delight. Spencer watched her cautiously, but with a small smile curling one side of his mouth.

“Illicit flowers? Oh, that’s perfect! I love them.” And suddenly she did.

“Oh, good. It’s nice when one’s mistakes come off as charming,” Spencer murmured, still watching her closely. “Welcome to London, Emily.”

“Thanks.” She curled the flowers closer and then glanced back across the platform. The not-Spencer was gone, and she spared a brief thought for how he thought he’d connected with a kind stranger, only to be mistaken. And then she thought how relieved she was that _her_ Spencer was the way he was, and not the not-Spencer. 

“How are you finding it?” 

She turned back, and he’d shuffled closer both in an effort to avoid being jostled and to be heard above the train station’s din.

“London, I mean…” he added.

“Oh,” she huffed. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it? Everywhere is so packed with activity. Like here, for example. It’s madness! It seems as though everyone is busy ignoring that there’s a war on…”

“Um-hmmm,” he nodded. “That’s the English stiff upper lip for you. It comes off as callous until you realize it’s how they cope with everything. But it’s very reassuring when the going gets tough, trust me. That sea biscuit-dryness in the face of impending doom has made me thankful for Tommies under fire more times than I can count.”

The world-weariness flicked back into his expression for an instant, and then was gone. She looked at his smooth cheeks and his slight build that spoke to his youth, and saw how deceptive appearances could be. She knew he’d already done things at twenty-two that fellas the same age a generation or two earlier might not have thought about. It aged them all beyond their years.

“Well, even so, this place is a madhouse. And the tube system mystifies me. I took the train in from Mildenhall today, but I’ll probably just use Betty from now on, even if it takes longer.”

“I forgot that you brought the bike with you,” Spencer grinned.

“Leave my baby out of the adventure? Never!”

He laughed. It was a little high and a little loud, but the way it made his smile impossibly wide and the lines around his eyes crinkle, it was fun and infectious. She was laughing too in the end and almost missed his comment.

“I may not be what you expected, but you are exactly as I imagined you’d be.”

“I… I am?” she asked as their laughter died down. The crowd around them had given them a wide berth in case their hilarity was contagious.

“Uh-huh,” he said as he smiled, and placed a hand along her back to nudge her towards the street exit. But he didn’t elaborate. “Would you like an adventure now, or would you like your tea first?”

“ _Peter Pan_ ,” she identified the quote before she could think about it, causing him to arch his eyebrows at her over his glasses. “Do you think I’m a child who refuses to grow up?”

“There are worse things to be right now,” he murmured as they merged into the midday bustle of London. He smiled absently as he arched to his full height trying to find a safe path to wherever they were going, his hand still a gentle pressure at her back. “But let’s find some tea anyway.”

\---- 

They found themselves in a tea room that was bright and cozy despite one side of it being boarded over. The buildings next to it were also boarded up, though it was clear that they were still being used. The entire row across the street was in ruins. Emily watched in fascination as a bunch of children played in the scatter of bricks and lathe, mothers clucking at them from the sidewalk where they stood together and chatted idly. 

“This place used to be bigger,” Spencer said absently, eyes drifting to the boarding as his fingers circled his teacup. His gaze came back to hers and then flicked away shyly, as if he didn’t know how to take her all in. “They still make a good cup of tea though.”

Emily sipped hers thoughtfully, too nervous to do much but stare at him and ignore the strange sandwiches provided to them. She was hungry, but they were _cucumber_. Spencer said that you got used to it, and given the way he ate his, she figured that it must be a taste you acquired the longer you lived there. 

Since he wouldn’t look at her, she was free to stare at him, and she was having a hard time connecting this sharp-edged, bookish man with the self-effacing optimism of his letters. He seemed older than his letters suggested, and yet his shyness undercut that impression at odd moments. She was finding it hard to get a handle on him, and that was oddly compelling. But she still got the feeling that he was conflicted about being there, and now that she’d met him, she wanted to find a way to convince him to stay.

“How long has it been since you were last here?” she asked, and it brought his gaze back to her. His eyes seemed deceptively large; perhaps it was the glasses.

“About a month.”

Emily glanced out at the children playing across the street again. “All this damage happened in a month?”

“It probably happened in a single night. The bombing raids aren’t what they once were, but the Germans still keep us on our toes. In a way, the sporadic bombings are worse than the destruction that was the Blitz. I think, after 1941, people thought about rebuilding, but then these random raids began, and folks just decided it was best to wait until the war was over.”

“That’s weirdly optimistic.”

He nodded, watching two boys in short pants shooting sticks at each other from behind piles of rubble across the road. “What else can you do?” His voice sounded distant, resigned.

She took a breath and asked the question she needed to. “Spencer, are you still angry with me?”

He turned sharply to face her, a look of shock transforming him. “Angry?”

“Because I joined up. Because I was determined to be a part of this,” she waved absently at the destruction beyond the window. Spencer sighed and shook his head. Emily felt her gut sour on the tea and odd little sandwiches. “Your letters while I was in training were… colder than before. And I wasn’t sure you’d meet me at the station today.”

That statement obviously upset him, making him sit straighter, his throat swallowing reflexively and worry lining those wide eyes.

“Please don’t be angry,” she said quietly, her heart suddenly flickering too quickly at the thought of losing someone she’d only just met. “You know I’m a little too brazen for my own good, and I’d probably find another way to get into trouble if it weren’t this.” She leaned forward in her seat as a waiter passed them, wanting to keep their conversation close in the busy tea room. “Meeting you today… well, I’m so happy it happened. Our correspondence has come to mean so much to me, and now… you’re _real_. I feel like a kid who got exactly what they wanted for Christmas, but instead of a trinket, I have a friend. And now I’m terribly concerned that you like me.”

She felt her cheeks heat and wished her hair were loose to shelter her or she could hide beneath her cap. She was embarrassed by this sudden flash of insecurity, so foreign to her usual confidence. He reached out and let his fingers land lightly across hers on the tablecloth; they were warm from clutching his tea.

“I’m not angry,” he said softly but quickly, his worry deepening when she glanced back up at him. “I’m just concerned for your safety, that’s all. Our friendship delights me as well. I don’t want to lose that, and that means I wish you were as far away from danger as possible. This is a dangerous place, Emily, even if it’s far from the battlegrounds of Europe.”

She dropped her gaze again and his hand slipped from hers.

“But I know you,” he continued, and when she looked up, he was smirking at her a little. “The things that scare most folks don’t bother you. Part of me expected you to do something half-mad in regard to this war – I could see it building in your letters. At least this way, we got to meet, and maybe I can look out for you a little.”

She smirked back at him, trying to hide how her pulse rabbited around at his reply. “Maybe I don’t need a big, tough fella watching over me,” she sassed.

“Well, how about a skinny, odd one, then?” he smiled as he watched her laugh. “Emily, you don’t have to worry about whether I like you or not,” he continued gently when her glee petered out. “I like you very much. I knew that wouldn’t change when we met.”

Her chest suddenly felt too small for all the things throbbing inside it. “I like you very much as well,” she murmured back, cheeks getting far too warm. “You are… such a pleasant surprise.”

He blinked rapidly and licked his lips. “You said that before. How so?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m thrown by the uniform,” she gestured to his British Army officer dress uniform. “How does that even work? You’re not a citizen.”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” he shrugged. “Lt.-Colonel Hotchner is U.S. Army Intelligence and wears the American khakis, but I’m still Royal Army SIS. Probably has something to do with when we were conscripted. It confuses the locals in Milton Keynes terribly – a Yank in their uniform…”

“Is that where you’re based?”

He nodded. “For now. I bounce back and forth between there and here with the SIS business, but when I get new orders I’ll probably end up back at Croughton. And you? You mentioned Mildenhall…”

“Yeah, but I don’t live on the base. I guess being both American and female is too much for the COs there to stomach. I’m in a women’s-only boarding house in a nearby village. Lots of questionable, single broads there. I fit right in,” she grinned, and he snorted softly.

“Mildenhall to Croughton is almost as far as Mildenhall to London…” he mumbled and then caught himself as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Emily’s pulse jumped – was he planning on them meeting regularly? But he recovered quickly before she could ask about that. “How’s it going out there? At Mildenhall…”

She sighed and shrugged, thinking how _this_ part of her adventure was less glamourous than she thought. “It’s basically the same deal as it was in New Haven, except with better pay and a scratchier uniform.” She itched at her WAAC dress jacket while Spencer watched with curiosity. “My CO doesn’t have much regard for women workers, but he can’t argue with my skill. And he’s not the sort to allow his men to take advantage, so, there’s that, I suppose.”

Spencer’s forehead creased with worry when she mentioned that, and then he tried to hide it by smoothing the short, soft waves of his hair back into place.

“Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “I’m being careful. I know it’s no different from the stuff that happened in New Haven. The country’s changed, but the grunts are the same, just with funny accents.”

“War makes men raw. It emphasizes their best and worst attributes to the extreme.” He watched her closely as he said it but didn’t follow it up with any further warnings. Perhaps he knew that she understood her situation far better than he could. Even so, part of her got a little tighter to see how the prospect bothered him.

“Honestly, I don’t know what I expected it to be,” she continued. “Maybe I thought it would be more exciting? But I guess a jet engine is a jet engine anywhere, isn’t it? The traveling has been fun, and meeting new folks, and being away from Mother and the town I grew up in – that’s all wonderful. I shouldn’t be upset that the work is the same.”

He thought about that for a while. “Well, I guess you just take Betty and see as much of this place as you can while time allows for it. Right?” He arched an eyebrow, almost challenging her. She felt a smile slowly build across her face, and it was reflected in him when he smiled back.

“Sometimes, you’re a lot like Evan,” she said.

“Oh, probably not,” he inexplicably blushed. “I think I just have an idea of what you’re about, that’s all.”

“That’s more than most.”

He shrugged back, as if saying ‘so be it’. “What would you like to see?”

She thought for a moment, shocked that she didn’t have a list ready for him. “Well, I’d like to take Betty into the country, roar around and see what I can see.”

“Gloucester and Sussex are both lovely. I can say from experience,” he nodded.

“I’ve heard the Lake District is beautiful.”

“It is, but a bit of a drive on a bike. And the weather can be tricky. The train might be better.”

“Well then you’d surely disapprove of my desire to drive to Scotland…” she grinned, and he made a face.

“It’s your backside…” he dismissed, and then his cheeks pinked up when he realized what he’d said, which just made her laugh more. “What about here in London?” he choked out.

“The usual things. I’d like to see the Tower, the Dungeons, Whitechapel…”

“Of course,” he chuckled. “For your gruesome streak.”

“The Palace, Westminster, The National Gallery, St. Paul’s…”

“The National Gallery closed in ‛39, unfortunately, and a good thing too considering all the bombing since. St. Paul’s is intact but almost everything around it is in ruins.”

Emily slouched a little in her chair. She’d been eager to see those sights, and temporarily forgot about the effects of the war. She didn’t know how she’d get around in London either – she’d have to put more effort into learning the Underground system. Then Spencer leaned forward and pushed his tea away.

“I know something we can see. I bet you’ll love it. C’mon…” He stood quickly and brushed his cap before donning it with a slightly roguish tilt that was the wont of most officers, but nonetheless looked out of place on him. Then he held out his hand to her and gave her a short, diffident bow. “With your permission, m’lady…”

“Goodness,” she huffed as she rolled her eyes at him. But she held out her hand anyway and he waited for her to put on her own cap before tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow and setting off through the door and past the ruins at a brisk pace.

He talked almost constantly: about local stories, places he’d seen, and general London history. He spun it all out like a fairy tale or a fascinating book he’d read. It was one, long story to him, and she got sucked into it as they walked, almost believing that everything she was seeing and hearing about was a thread in a single, enormous tapestry. 

They passed all sorts as they walked, including soldiers who, if she’d been alone, would surely have made a comment or two given the way they stared. She was used to that, but instead, all she felt were eyes on her and Spencer. No enlisted man would challenge an officer in broad daylight. When he noticed their regard, she felt Spencer stand a little taller at her side, tightening his grip on her arm. As she glanced at him, she saw a quiet contentment on his face instead of the concern she thought would be there. He held his head high, gesturing widely to the city around them as if he owned it. She hummed quietly and kept pace with him, already unexpectedly comfortable with him at her side. 

They arrived at the north end of London Bridge, and there, Spencer’s story grew dark, his voice becoming delighted and animated.

“It’s not much to see these days, but there has been a bridge in one form or another at this point along the Thames since 50 A.D. The Romans built the first one, but things didn’t get interesting here until the Middle Ages.”

He strolled them along the length of the deceptively ordinary-looking bridge.

“In the 1300s, it was quite the structure, with gatehouses at the north and south ends, a drawbridge to allow ships to pass beneath it, and two public latrines that dumped directly into the river below.”

“Ewww,” she curled closer, disgusted and enthralled.

“I know. The smell must have been atrocious,” he wrinkled his nose. “There were also buildings along the bridge, both residential and commercial. I suppose all of their waste went into the river as well…”

“You’re focusing too much on the poop.”

“Yes. Oh, my apologies…” he stuttered before continuing. “But can you imagine it? _Living_ on a bridge!”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, it was!” he turned to her delightedly, which made her grin back at him. “The bridge was made of wood, as were the buildings, and they regularly burned down and were rebuilt. During one fateful night, two separate fires started at either end of the bridge, trapping those living in the buildings and burning them alive. No hope for escape.”

Emily made an interested sound and Spencer squeezed her hand. “I knew you’d enjoy this… Anyway, multiple gruesome deaths weren’t enough to deter the powers that be, and the homes and businesses were always rebuilt. It added an incredible amount of load stress to the arches holding it up. Engineering wasn’t so much of a thing in those days.”

“I guess not.”

“Eventually, the buildings got to be as high as seven storeys, and they spanned the width of the bridge creating a dark tunnel that travelers had to pass through to get from one side to the other. This also increased the risk of fire because the tunnel had to be lit, and some vendors did business in it. It had to be lit all the time, you see. On top of the architectural issues, the arches slowed the flow of the river because they were so bulky and oddly spaced. This meant that in hard winters, the lack of flow encouraged the water to freeze over and shipping halted completely for the season. It caused great strife between shipmen and landfolk. _Then_ waterwheels were added at either end of the bridge to facilitate grain milling, and it caused the formation of dangerous rapids around the supporting arches, so shipping lanes were too treacherous to use. The whole concept just went from bad to worse…”

“Jeez, how do you know all this?”

“I read a lot.” He glanced at her, smile fading a bit. “It’s interesting…”

“Oh, I agree. I was just wondering, that’s all.

“Oh, ummm… so, the whole structure was a deathtrap, an eyesore, and a serious impediment to river commerce, but none of that compares to what was at the south end…”

The end of the bridge was in sight and Emily arched up to see if anything stood out. “What was there?”

“That’s where they displayed the heads,” he bent close and whispered.

“What?”

Spencer nodded gleefully. “The heads of traitors were mounted on spikes there on and off for nearly four hundred years. William Wallace, Thomas Moore, Cromwell… And the spiking site became a church, no less.”

“So… welcome to London. This is what we do to people who displease us,” Emily waved her hand around disbelievingly.

“Yep.”

“ _Horrific._ ”

“Indeed.”

“I love it.”

“Thought you would,” he smiled and stopped them closer to the south end to look out over the river. “Of course, this isn’t the exact bridge. They demolished the old one after they built this one to replace it. They ended up spending more to create the roads to it than they did on the bridge itself. The old one was probably… there.” He pointed to an unimpressive spot on the south bank. “But just imagine it in all of its ugly, misguided, piecemeal glory. People living in garreted near-darkness, constantly on the verge of being burned or drowned, the cold in the winter, the infestations in the summer, folks using your backyard as a public toilet, and dead bodies rotting at the gates. What a thing, huh?”

Emily watched him watch the river, his eyes lighting up as if the old monstrosity were right before him. He was truly delighted, as she was, and she didn’t understand until then, how similar they were in their love of the odd and off-colour. She’d never known anyone other than Evan who found such topics interesting. Her mother had loudly despaired whenever she brought up medieval torture or archaic war techniques at the dinner table as a child. She threatened Emily with all sorts of juvenile punishments if she recited gory tales of Lizzie Borden or Jack the Ripper to relatives or guests. Emily learned to hide her curiosity – she was always told it was unfeminine anyway – and thought she might never find anyone but Evan to share it with. Then Evan died, and now…

“Thanks for this, Spencer,” she murmured and squinted, thinking she could almost see a spiked severed head waving in the breeze on the south shore. She felt him turn to look at her.

“It’s not The National Gallery.”

“But it’s still wonderful,” she said, her free hand drifting to her jacket pocket and the mangy bouquet poking out of it. “Perfect for me.”

He was quiet for a moment and then he murmured, “Okay. You’re welcome.” They leaned against the railing and watched the river flow lazily under them as the sun turned the late summer haze into remarkable colours above.

\---- 

September 25, 1943  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

My goodness! What was your last letter? Did you _really_ copy out twenty pages on Viking invasions of Mercia from memory for me?! I mean, it was FASCINATING, but gosh, you didn’t have to. Your wrist must have been in a terrible state afterwards. (The drawings in the margins were great, though Gladys saw me reading the letter at the boarding house and has decided that you are the worst possible friend I could have – hahaha!)

How is your friend getting along with his M20 in Provence? That trick with the baling twine and aluminum can will only hold for so long. Eventually it’ll just leak oil everywhere and seize up on him. He needs a grease monkey to take it on for real, not through the post.

Speaking of M20s, Betty helped me make a friend. I was roaring around the outskirts of the village the other day and I came across this woman alone in a field with a tractor that had crapped out on her and was smoking like a signal fire. Poor thing, she was really in a bind with it. So, I hopped over and got to it. It was just stuck – overheated and burning oil – but she had no idea what to do. She said she’d never seen a lady mechanic before and I fibbed and said America was full of them. Anyway, her husband is the farmer, but he’s been MIA in France since the spring, so she was trying her best to keep her head above water. She’s so young, Spencer, and with two little ones to boot. I told her if she needed some mechanical know-how to send word to the boarding house and I’d come when I could. I showed her some basics, and she made me breakfast (oh, fresh eggs! The glory of it!). So, now I’m welcome any time for tea and toast, and I’m showing her the sorcery of the socket wrench in return. Her name is Millie, and she’s a lively one. The other women in the village don’t care for her much since it seems she wooed her husband away from another girl he promised to marry. I’m not a fan of catty romantic entanglements, but it sounds like they were made for each other. And now she’s alone while the village looks on like widowhood is her just reward. It’s despicable. 

I can’t seem to get away from finding odd people to befriend, can I?

That’s the most adventure I’ve had so far. Life’s a little dull here. Work at the base is the same. Milgrew still has me doing glorified oil changes rather than real work. I can’t decide what he thinks will get in my way more – my ‘gutter’ accent or my knockers. I’m trying to keep cool, Spencer, I really am, but I’m afraid I’ll eventually say something to him I shouldn’t. We’re both, technically, the same rank, but it will all come down on me, as we both know. Ugh. I wish there were more fellas about like you.

Oh! I found something I thought you might like. I was hiking along the village’s beck and found a fossil (I think?). It looks like a fern impression, or bracken maybe… Could it be very old do you think? I’m sending it to you because I’m sure you’d know. I can’t believe I’m mailing you a rock…

How’s London? Write soon – I’m bored.  
Emily

\---- 

September 27, 1943

Dear Emily,

Doesn’t sound like you’re bored. Maybe the pace of war isn’t what you thought it would be. I find that it drags and drags. There’s so much waiting involved.

I’m glad you found a friend. Millie sounds like your type, and probably in need of a solid pal like you. Maybe you’ll convert her into a mechanical genius as well. Wouldn’t that be a hoot? But probably destined to make her more of an outsider with the locals… By the way, my friend in France with the motorbike finally found a French mechanic. He wrote to tell me to thank you for your advice, and then he said a few other things that decency won’t allow me to repeat. The point is, he’s grateful, and so am I.

Thank you for the rock! It is a fossil, but it would be impossible to tell how old it is without a professional laboratory and sampling it. Regardless, it’s probably older than the country we’re standing in, at the very least, which is a real boot to the head when you stop and think about it. Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it? This little rock has probably been stood on by Saxon warriors, and pagan Danes, and bloodthirsty Romans, and Saracen slaves… as well as the local lads before they went off to fight the latest enemy of the empire. Makes you feel small in comparison.

I know you don’t need reminding, but please be careful about antagonizing your CO. Whether we like it or not, this is a man’s war in a man’s world. Milgrew could make things very unpleasant for you, Emily. Please bide your time – be strategic. The opportunity will come, and you will make the most of it, I’m sure. There’s a time to be brash and a time to be calculating – I _know_ you’re smarter and more cunning than he is. Use that to your advantage.

London is dull as well (and rainy). I haven’t done anything fun since we had our day on London Bridge. It’s all work, work, work. I’m currently training new SIS agents for field ops, but they’re all so young and bewildered-looking. They can’t be much younger than me, but I feel like an old man when I talk to them. So disorienting. Still no word on when I might get new orders either.

Maybe I should come up to visit? If you want. I’ve been meaning to go to Cambridge and check out their library for some obscure topics I wish to investigate. We could make a day of it. We could take the train from Mildenhall, or we could take Betty. I don’t mind riding on the back. If you’re interested in that. It’s fine if you aren’t.

Do you have any curiosity about witchcraft? (Not the practice of it, but the history of it in England). I just read this comprehensive history about it and there are plenty of sites in southern England that you could visit. Perhaps it could be another adventure for you and Betty…

Must get back to it. But write soon and banish my boredom.  
Eagerly awaiting the mail,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

October 8, 1943  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

Thanks again for the lovely day in Cambridge. Even with the rain, I had a great time (sorry about the mud – next time we’ll take the train). How could you possibly know so many things about toadstools? Or steak and kidney pie? Or medieval tithes? Your mind is truly a wonder. Though I find it amusing that you can go on and on about the mechanics of the internal combustion engine, but you couldn’t figure out how to start up Betty. I guess there are still things you could learn, huh?

I must say that after all of that, the view before me now is rather grey. Things are definitely more interesting when you’re around. Too bad you don’t fly jets. Then there would be the chance that we might work together, or at least closer to each other. But then again, flyboys have grim expectations. Maybe it’s best you stay on the ground.

I had tea with Millie yesterday (her truck won’t start when it rains, and it always seems to be raining here) and told her about you. She got this look about her and when I began teasing her, she said to be careful not to lead you on. She thinks you’re sweet on me. I told her that we’ve been friends for a while, and if that were the case, you’d have told me by now. Right? But she insisted that I was blind to it, which was a little insulting considering that she’s younger than me. But what can you do? She misses her fella terribly and is starting to accept that he’s never coming home – maybe she just wants to see love in other people to make her feel better. She said, “No bloke volunteers to let a bird drive him around in the bleedin’ rain over God’s half acre just ‘cause he’s up for a lark – he has eyes for you, luv”.

Oh dear, I really must apologize again for the muck. It must have been quite the train ride back to London in that grimy uniform. I feel bad. So, the next time, I’ll come to you instead. Sound fair?

And, I guess I need to ask – do you feel “led on”, Spencer? Please be candid with me. I would hate for something to come between us because of a misunderstanding. I enjoy you very much – more and more each time we meet – but I’ve never thought what that looks like to others. Millie has made me self-conscious, I guess.

In other news, perhaps my opportunity has arrived. Milgrew gave me a beat-up Spitfire to overhaul today. The mechanic assigned went AWOL and was found two towns over passed out in a pub. I doubt he’ll work on a plane again any time soon. So, Milgrew gave me his assignment and told me that if I screwed up, I’d cost a flyboy his life. No pressure there. But _I got the assignment._ I’m the only woman working in the main hangar, and I’m not going back to doing oil changes on cargo drops. I’m certainly better than a drunken deserter. 

I guess I should post this. It feels a little lop-sided, but what the heck, right? You should be used to that from me by now.

Warm and mud-free wishes,  
Emily

\---- 

October 10, 1943

Dear Emily,

Millie is wrong. You are not leading me on. I know what we are and what we aren’t. Our friendship is unique, and I’m sure that’s confusing to some. Friendships between men and women in general always seem overcast with a romantic view. I confess that I, too, enjoy you more each time we meet, but I have no expectations beyond continuing in your company. Please don’t worry about this, or the hesitation Millie has put in your head about it. I’m sure she meant well, but we should only be concerned with what makes us happy in each other’s presence.

I was so proud to read your news about Milgrew and the Spitfire. I’m sure you’re busy being brilliant up to your elbows in engine grease. I’m relieved that the opportunity came when it did, and that you stayed patient and waited the Neanderthal Milgrew out. Better to change the old fart’s mind than to battle him. And I knew you could, Emily. Always. I wish my students were as eager and able as you. They mostly seem scared to the exclusion of all else. I understand that better than they think, but unless they can master it, their SIS careers will be brief ones. They exhaust me, honestly. Perhaps I’m the old fart in this scenario?

It would brighten my outlook considerably if you came to visit. What shall we do? A concert? A play? Or maybe just go to the movies? Let me know, or we could just wing it. Whatever you like. I’m at your disposal.

Happily,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

[scrawled on the back of a serviette] 

For a guy who has a sweet tooth, you sure made quick work of my popcorn. You owe me two pence, thief.

See you next week, and YOU’RE BUYING.  
\- E.

\---- 

October 17, 1943

Dear Emily,

Enclosed is a drawing of me for you. Notice how skinny I am except the satisfied, round bump where I am hiding all of your popcorn in my belly.

Unrepentantly,  
Spencer  
London

\---- 

October 31, 1943  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I have bad news. I can’t make it to London for the concert this weekend. Some Spits came back all cracked up to hell and are needed for a mission the first of the week. It’s all-hands-on-deck to make them flight-worthy by then. No rest for the wicked, I guess. And speaking of wicked, today is Halloween and I’ve missed it. Not that anyone here knows what it is anyway.

I’m sorry, Spencer. This letter is all trick and no treat. And I was looking forward to Beethoven! Maybe you can give the tickets to some other Joe at the training facility?

Gloomily,  
Emily

\---- 

November 2, 1943  
Mildenhall

Just a note to tell you again that you’re tops, Spencer. Though maybe next time you decide to surprise me for Halloween you don’t dress up like a scary clown and pop out of the bushes next to my boarding house. I very nearly peed myself. But after that, the chocolate and the company were much appreciated.

And again, sorry about the black eye. I hope it doesn’t hurt so much.

Wary of bushes forevermore,  
Emily

\---- 

November 14, 1943

Dear Emily,

You left your hydraulics manual on my coat, but I’ll bring it back when I come on Saturday. I hope you don’t need it urgently before then. If you do, telephone me and I’ll put it in the mail straight away. I’ve read it by now, by the way, and though I have a clear picture of each schematic breakdown in my head, I still can’t figure out how you make heads or tails of it. Good thing Joes are relying on you instead of me to keep them in the air.

Did you enjoy the cabinet of curiosities exhibit? I couldn’t quite tell. Some of it was beyond odd, I’ll give you that. And I guess some of it was offensive, but that’s a subjective value of taste. I assumed that if you were upset, you’d say so. I found it enlightening but wished that we’d gone _after_ our meal. Sorry about that.

Can you believe it’s been nearly six months since I was assigned a mission? I don’t know what it means that my orders have been delayed so long. This is very unusual. Even the luxury of planning outings with you have become something I expect, when really, I shouldn’t. I keep feeling like the delay _means something_. Surely, I won’t spend the rest of the war decoding German cyphers or training SIS personnel… I probably shouldn’t worry as much about it as I am. It won’t do any good anyway.

Well, we can talk about this when I see you next. You’re always good at calming my unnecessary sense of alarm. My train is scheduled for 10:15, and I’ll be waiting in my usual spot, stamping my feet and smoking to stay warm…

See you soon!  
Spencer  
London

 

\---- 

 

“Spencer!” she yelled into the darkness. 

She’d lost her hold on his hand and it was pitch black and disorienting in the street with the air raid sirens drowning out everything but the sense of panic. Suddenly his hand was clutching hers again as he yanked her against him, and for a second all she felt was pure, libidinous relief that she wasn’t alone in this nightmare.

“Where-” she began.

“It’s close. But hurry, Emily, hurry!”

The menacing drone was getting closer, and there was an ominous glow in the sky to the west. Emily heard others running beside them in the street, but no one was crying out or offering help. It was a nearly silent, determined scurry of survival, and due to the blackout restrictions, she was almost completely blind in the overcast night with the German bombers bearing down on them.

“They got the west end,” she whispered. Spencer pulled her against him as he ran, almost lifting her off her feet when she stumbled to keep up.

“The west end’s already ruined,” he mumbled, voice low but tight. “They’re just testing their aim before reaching central London…”

“Jesus!”

“Emily, c’mon! We can’t be out in the open!”

The sirens were splitting her head and the fear had turned her numb. She never imagined fear like this – not once in all of dreams of escaping New Haven and doing something meaningful with her life. Blindly, she followed Spencer wherever he led, distantly wondering how he wasn’t paralyzed by their rapidly-approaching deaths. In the back of her stunned mind, she remembered his letter about running into SS gunfire to save Aline. Clearly, he could switch off his terror when it was absolutely necessary. Thank God he found it necessary now. 

Someone stumbled close to them and there was a squeak of pain. Instinctively, she let go of Spencer’s hand and reached for the stranger in the dark.

“Emily!”

“You okay?” she asked the shadow on the cobblestones. Then she felt a small hand grab one of hers, as Spencer reclaimed the other.

“Em-”

“Help her, Spencer…”

He grunted softly as he lifted the girl at their feet, then growled instructions under the thrum of the sirens and distant planes drawing closer. “Hold onto the belt of my coat. Do NOT let go, Emily. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lieutenant.” She’d meant to cut the panic, but it came out subservient, which lessened the panic in its own way.

They ran flat out for another two blocks, Spencer breathing hard as he carried the silent girl in his arms. Emily still had no clue where they were and shut herself down except for the blind trust she had in Spencer. Finally, they turned a corner and a muted light flicked in the darkness, like Morse code.

“There! Quickly!” he urged, putting the girl down when they reached the Underground entrance and turning to grab Emily. “Down, both of you, now…”

Their shoes clattered down the stairs into a new type of darkness, the girl sprinting in front as if she knew where she was going. They turned a corner into the fare lobby of the station, and the tiles were lit was a soft glow that drew them further in. They hopped over the turnstiles and descended lower, meeting people crouched on the stairs leading to the station platform.

“Must be crowded,” Spencer huffed, but they kept going.

The Underground platform was bursting to capacity, but what was eerie was the quiet. Everyone huddled close – friends and strangers alike – eyes wide, listening. The little girl they’d rescued turned back briefly and murmured, “Thanks”, before diving into the crowd with her worn coat and scraped knees. Emily was briefly stunned by the silent, staring flood of humanity hiding in the subway station. Spencer pulled her onwards, stepping carefully in the narrow walkway left down the center of the platform.

“There might be space further in…”

Emily followed him dumbly, watching the scared and weary glances alike washing over her and then away. Couples, children in nightclothes, old people reading newspapers like they were at home in their living rooms… 

“This is… crazy…” she mumbled, stumbling over her shoes.

A rumbling shook the subway station, but the walls muffled it. Some jumped, others sighed and rolled their eyes to the ceiling, waiting for more. Emily shuffled hard against Spencer’s back. His fingers squeezed hers tightly.

“S’okay, Emily…”

“Have you done this before?” It was a stupid question, but she felt stupid with fear. She didn’t want to die here. She didn’t want to be a part of this anymore. She didn’t understand how these people could be so calm in the face of destruction. How did anyone stand this level of terror, day after day, for years? The panic was crawling up her throat, calcifying her chest – she wanted to claw her way out of her skin to escape it.

“Yes,” he turned, and his face was close to hers as if whispering. His eyes were wide and worried, riveted to hers. “There’s a considerable measure of protection here. We’ll be all right.”

“ _How?_ ” she murmured incredulously, her fear making her too sharp. “They’re dropping bombs on us from planes, and all we’re doing is standing still and WAITING for them in a concrete sarcophagus?” 

“Emily,” he hushed as his eyes flicked to those around them. “Not so loud.”

She dropped her gaze to her scuffed mary janes, chastened. “Sorry.” The shaking began then in earnest, making her vision jump in rapid hiccups.

He stepped closer, brushing his mouth close to her ear so only she could hear him. “Trust me. I didn’t bring you here to die.”

Her free hand found the lapel of his coat and curled into it. “I do trust you,” she whispered back.

“Lieutenant! Hey, Lieutenant…”

Spencer turned to find the voice. A young enlisted lad was waving from down the platform, a pretty girl in a racy dress and red lipstick propped in his lap. He grinned when he caught their eye and waved harder, irking his girl with the movement.

“C’mon, sir. Over ‘ere. Plenty of room for you an’ your bird…”

Spencer shuffled them down the platform until they reached the grunt. He grinned and wiggled, jostling others along the station wall until, miraculously, a small space opened up.

“C’mon, Doris, shift yerself!” he grumbled to his girl as she squirmed in his lap. Then he looked up at Spencer and Emily. “Lots of space, see?”

“Oi, Harvey! Have a care!” Doris growled.

“Dor, quit being precious. The officer needs to sit…”

“Oh, we don’t need to, really,” Emily said, wary of Doris’s lethal stare.

“If we don’t,” Spencer murmured. “We might have to stand all night.”

Her shoes weren’t made for that. Emily glanced at the space made – only enough for one body, really – and then glanced at Spencer.

“We won’t fit.”

“We’ll make it work,” he said quietly, just as another detonation shook the tunnel and clouds of dust trickled from the ceiling.

He kneeled down and propped his back against the wall, then he held out his hand for her. She squeezed in beside him, and even though he made himself as small as possible, they were pressed tightly against one another as well as those on either side of them.

“Just sit in his lap, luv,” Doris said.

“Oh. We’re not… we’re not sweethearts,” Emily mumbled back awkwardly as Spencer looked away.

“Well, you might be after tonight,” Harvey chuckled amiably. “This is how I met my Dor, here.” He cuddled Doris closer until she squeaked and then he kissed her soundly. “Nothing like a Kraut bombing to make a bloke glad he’s got a bird to hold, right?”

“Harvey…” Doris rolled her eyes but snuggled closer anyway with a promising smirk.

“Oh,” Emily gusted as the canoodling continued. Spencer tensed beside her; it was hard not to feel everything he was doing, their closeness telegraphing the slightest movement easily. “Well, ummm, congratulations…”

Emily watched them for a moment, staring at their joy in one another and the way they ignored their surroundings. The station vibrated again, not violently, but enough to make Emily twitch. She couldn’t block out what was happening above them.

“How are you not scared?” she asked without thought. Doris perked up, all rosy-cheeked and sparkling. Then she smiled ruefully.

“Danger makes the gussing count more, luv. You never been with a bloke when things are dire?”

Emily shook her head, no, feeling herself blush.

“Everything gets tight,” Doris leaned close and grinned in a strange confederacy. “Like you’ll burst out of yerself. If you’ve ever seen a dog in heat – that’s how it is. Yer half-mad, but there’s no better feeling…”

“Dor,” Harvey warned softly, trying to hide a smile and nodding towards Spencer. “Apologies, sir. She’s a pip.”

Spencer cleared his throat awkwardly beside Emily. “No need to apologize… It’s fortunate you found one another.” Harvey chuckled and then turned back to Doris, laying a sound kiss on her. Emily felt her blush flare even more, and Spencer wiggled nervously at her side. She wanted them to stop, but she was also spellbound, and vividly aware of Spencer against her.

“You’re American,” Doris commented gustily when she and Harvey came up for air once again.

“Ummm, yes. We both are,” Emily said.

“But… the uniform…” Harvey’s brow creased as he looked Spencer over.

“I’m Royal Army,” Spencer assured him. “It’s a long story.”

Harvey thought about that for a brief minute and then shrugged it away. “No matter. So long as we’re all on the same side. Yer not a Kraut – that’s what counts.”

The subway tunnel shook again, this time violently. Dust rained down over the crowd as they contracted against the walls and stairs like one entity. Tiles chipped from the walls and clattered across the station platform. Emily stifled a yelp, and then Spencer’s arm was around her shoulder pulling her tight against him.

“Welcome to London,” Doris murmured cautiously after a minute, staring at the ceiling with trepidation. Emily turned her eyes down to her shoes and huffed a dismissive, “Huh” as she blinked too hard and tried to keep herself together and calm. After a long moment of nothing but the soft sounds of people readjusting after the commotion, she felt Spencer lean his head gently against hers.

“You know, during the height of the Blitz, a schoolroom was set up on the platform of the Elephant & Castle tube station so that children could-”

“Spencer, so help me God, if you think facts about wartime privations will calm me right now, you’ve got another thing coming,” she whispered harshly, and he immediately fell still and silent around her. She closed her eyes and pressed her face into his coat with a tremendous wave of regret; he had just been trying to distract her.

“Sorry,” she gulped wetly. Some brass broad she was – terrified by the reality of the life she’d chased after.

“We really will be okay,” he whispered after a long moment.

She choked down a sudden wave of hysteria. She felt like a trapped rat, locked in a box that was waiting for some unseen force to flatten it. She _hated_ the feeling of helplessness it aroused in her. Suddenly, she found herself clutching the seam of Spencer’s trouser leg, fingertips turning white from the effort.

“How will this ever be okay?” she whispered back. “We’re _helpless._ ” The shame of her fear swamped her, and she was mortified that he was witnessing it. He’d never look at her the same way again.

“I… I guess… I’m not as fearless as I thought,” she said miserably.

He sighed deeply, his breath fluttering the scarf at her throat and making her shiver unexpectedly. He was quiet for a few more minutes. Somewhere in the tunnel, someone produced a flute and began to play something sweet and delicate. Emily turned to face the sound before she made a choice to do so, like a flower to the sun. Then she felt his hand land over hers along his trousers, and she turned back to him.

“This is why I didn’t want you to come to London. Or anywhere close to the war,” he mumbled, as if everything – the whole war – was his fault. “The brutality is so random. I couldn’t stand it if I lost you to something random…”

Her heartbeat fluttered suddenly, and she wondered if he could feel that. She didn’t want to lose him either, and in the panic of their escape from the street, she hadn’t thought about if _she’d_ lost him, if she found herself down on the platform without him. Her time in London – this whole adventure – had been wrapped up in him. She couldn’t picture herself continuing with it alone. 

She became aware that they were almost on top of one another. Curled up and pressed unambiguously close, staring at each other. It wasn’t proper. She wondered if he ever thought about propriety, and how they were slowly dismissing that together without discussing it. If she became possessed, and crawled into his lap like Doris did with Harvey, what would he do? Would he stare at her in shock? Or would he pull her in? She imagined his hands on her – not to protect her, but to hold her to him. She thought about what his mouth might feel like. She wondered if he was envious of Harvey, but too shy to hold a bird close in a shelter during a bombing raid. Her pulse flickered madly at her throat and she found herself swallowing uselessly trying to calm it.

“But if this had to happen,” he continued, staring at their hands. “At least I’m here too. We’re in it together.”

“You want to die with me?” she asked dryly.

“We’re not dying tonight. What I meant was, you don’t have to go through it alone. During my first air raid I was so frightened I couldn’t think. For hours. It went on for hours…”

Emily blinked, watching his profile as he continued staring at their hands. Dust had settled across his glasses and on the brim of his cap. She wanted to brush him clean but didn’t, just relaxing a little against him as she thought, _he’s here too_.

“How did you handle it?” she asked eventually. He turned to look at her.

“Stardust,” he said, as if it explained everything. 

“Pardon?”

“I was huddled in a tube station just like this one. It wasn’t as crowded, but… I was jumping at every cough, every whisper, every shoe tapping against a stair – just waiting for the drone and muffled whirring that would be the last sound I heard before the tunnel collapsed over me.”

One of his fingers traced the outline of her hand, and she was instantly mesmerized by the sensation.

“It was all I could think about. It blocked out every other thought or impulse. The helplessness was horrific, enraging, vividly painful… all I could think was that I was nineteen and there was so much I’d never do simply because I chose to wait silently for some anonymous plane to drop a bomb on my obliging head.”

Emily nodded. It was as if he’d peeled away her layers and looked inside her just then – it was exactly what she was feeling. She breathed awkwardly, and then focused on his finger once again. _He’s here too…_

“Just when I thought I couldn’t take another moment of it, I looked up and saw an old woman sitting across the platform. She stared at me like she knew me. Maybe she just knew what I was thinking. She smiled. Just that – for a moment and nothing more – and then she went back to her knitting. We never spoke, I never asked her name, but in that single glance she changed everything for me.”

Spencer twisted a little so he could look at her, his fingers curling hers away from his trousers and into his palm instead.

“I wasn’t in it alone. In fact, there were hundreds of people in that tunnel with me. If it collapsed, it wouldn’t be just my senseless death, it would be everyone there as well. And, to me, that made it a crime – something I vowed I’d fight to end if I made it to morning. Instead of being panicked, I was angry, and anger is active.”

He went quiet and watched her as she thought about that. Anger was something she was intimately familiar with, often to her detriment. But she understood it. Slowly, her thoughts began to turn…

“The old lady was calm, and at first, I didn’t understand that,” he continued quietly. “But then it became clear: she was at peace with dying that way because, if it happened, it would be over in an instant and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. So, she wasn’t going to waste time being afraid. She just got on with her knitting because that was _useful_. Then I thought about what ‘useful’ meant to me…”

His eyes got distant and he got quiet again for a long time. Her thoughts of anger subsided as she waited for him, newly hypnotized by the story he was unraveling for her, eager for the next part. A small part of her let her know that she wasn’t actively afraid anymore, sitting there pressed against him, lost in his tale. At Emily’s back she felt Doris and Harvey moving. The sounds they were making made Emily’s skin heat, and she hoped Spencer hadn’t noticed.

Spencer cleared his throat. “Useful, to me, is being part of something greater. Greater than a world war, greater than the pursuit of knowledge…” He looked at her suddenly, his expression too warm, too close, and she got shivery again. “Did you know that everything, everyone is essentially made of the same stuff as the dust of exploded stars?”

Emily shook her head, no, unable to speak while he looked at her that way.

“If I had died that night in that tunnel, my life would be done, but my essence would still be here – a part of the universe, like stardust. Just in a different form. It’s like… pure mathematics, or that fossil you found… things endure beyond the scope of our understanding. We get so lost in the finite blip of time we inhabit that we forget about that.”

His hand squeezed hers until it almost hurt, and he leaned in too close. She held her breath.

“We all have a purpose – of that, I’m certain. But I don’t believe we know what that purpose is. Perhaps that old woman’s purpose was to remind me of my place in existence. Or maybe not. The point is: it’s fine to be angry, it’s understandable to be afraid, but ultimately these reactions are useless, and we are here _to be useful_. Do something of use while you are here, Emily, and when you end, don’t be afraid. It’s only stardust, after all.”

Emily swallowed hard, reminded herself to breathe, and then let it out roughly. It almost covered up the sound of Harvey and Doris making out next to them. Just then, another explosion rocked the station over their heads, making Emily duck against Spencer’s chin. He sighed, the arm around her shoulders holding her securely, and then she nodded, raising her head to look at him again.

“Stardust…” she whispered, and then slowly reached up to pull his glasses from him. He went completely still, looking owlish and shocked as she cleaned the lenses with the end of her scarf. “You have beautiful eyes, Spencer. Warm and earnest. I want to see them clearly.”

She didn’t know where the brazenness had come from. Even by her standards, she was being forward. And she wasn’t sure that she had a chance. Maybe it was Doris’s words in her head. Maybe it was the effect of the bombing – just a finite blip in time, like he’d mentioned. 

She slid his glasses back into place and he blinked rapidly behind them, but he didn’t say a thing. 

“Why do you think you’re here, Spencer?” she asked after a moment of staring. “I know you said you think we can’t ever know-”

“I know why I’m here,” he interrupted, and his voice was thick and caught in his throat, forcing him to clear it softly before continuing. “At least, I think I know why…”

“Why?”

He shook his head. “Someday I’ll tell you, Emily. But not today. Not when we’re both scared and frustrated by the Luftwaffe.”

Then the Germans obliged them by dropping three bombs above in quick succession so that the tunnel shook, and dust rained over them all unceasingly as the muted sirens wailed. Emily wrapped her arms around him, shivering and willing herself to be angry or useful in some way. Her face pressed close against his left shoulder, and she could feel him shaking too. A sudden purpose flared up in her, replacing her brazen impulse with something keener. Her hands tightened across his back.

“I’m here,” she murmured into his collar, and he shook again. “You’re right – it’s better that we’re together. Even if the ceiling caves our heads in.”

His arms tightened around her and took her breath away. “I told you: we’re going to be okay. And when the dawn comes, we’ll step out into the street and get the best tea and breakfast you’ve ever had in your life.”

“Because we’re alive?”

“Yes,” his lips traced next to her ear. “Because we’re alive, and free, and a part of something too great to be bombed into insignificance.”

She nodded fiercely against him as another explosion detonated. And another. And another.

“Because we’re here together,” she shuddered.

“Yes. Always,” he growled and held her so tightly through the raid that she thought her heart might burst.

 

Hours later, when they emerged, blinking into the thin daylight with hundreds of others to the changed landscape around them, he held her hand in a new way and wouldn’t let go. They hopped over broken glass and scattered bricks, past smoldering cars and pockmarked sidewalks in silence. They walked for blocks and blocks, and it all seemed foreign to her suddenly – an alien world created overnight. When they reached a part of the city that was undamaged, she let her breath go easily for the first time in hours. He heard her and turned to watch her carefully as they walked. She straightened under his gaze, wanting to be as resilient as he seemed to be. 

“How do you… handle being in that every day, in France?” she asked, wondering if she really wanted to know the answer. “After last night, I don’t know if I could ever willingly walk into that again. Things… being beyond my control like that. It’s not the danger I’d fear, it’s the _chaos_ …”

He took some time to think about it. “Yes, I think about stardust and try to look beyond my brief mortality,” he said finally, looking forward towards the rising sun. “But I also wait for the mail.”

 

\---- 

November 22, 1943  
Mildenhall

Oh, Spencer! Millie received a telegram today. I held her and she cried for hours. The babies were just silent – they didn’t understand what was happening. He was tortured, Spencer, and there’s no body to send home. I don’t know if Millie will ever be right again. How will any of us ever be right again? This _fucking_ war!

 

Don’t die on me, Spencer. I don’t care about stardust and being unable to see the big picture. Just DON’T. You’re the only person since Evan that I absolutely believe in. Don’t ruin that by suddenly ceasing to exist.

 

Emily

\---- 

November 23, 1943

Emily,

I cannot make you an unrealistic, blanket promise, but I will say this: whatever happens, part of me will always be with you. In these letters, in your mind, maybe seeped into your cells somehow.

And you are always with me wherever I go. It’s a permanent condition from which I seek no relief. [section blacked out by repeated pen scratches]

Tell me how I can help, Emily. I am at your (and Millie’s) service.

Spencer  
London

\---- 

November 28, 1943  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

Thanks again for dropping everything and coming here for Corporal White’s wake. I think it helped Millie a lot to have some sort of army showing at the event. It certainly quelled the local fishwives a bit with you being all sober and official-looking at her side. Let’s hope it reminds them that this is a _tragedy_ , and not some sort of Shakespearean fit of dramatic irony. I still have no idea how she’ll manage the farm all alone, but I guess we’ll all find out. I’d better speed up my mechanics lessons with her so she has one less thing to worry about.

It’s so grey here, Spencer. I feel as if we haven’t seen the sun for weeks. Millie says I should take a trip south towards the port cities. She says the weather is better, if I can stand the sound of shelling from across the channel at night. After the air raid, I don’t think I can, not enough to enjoy myself anyway. Oh well.

I’ve been hiking a lot, just to stay active. I take Millie’s oldest when he’s up for it (I usually end up carrying him most of the way because he’s sorta lazy). I’ve enclosed a clipping of the last of this season’s bracken for you. The colour is amazing. I don’t know if you care for that sort of thing or not…

By the way, Millie mentioned how great you were with her kids. The little one keeps singing that French nursery rhyme you taught her, but all mispronounced and off-key. She thinks it’s adorable and keeps saying, “a bloke who loves mites is a keeper”. I think she still wants everyone to fall in love, even if her heart is broken. It makes me hurt for her. 

Any news from London? I know it’s only been a few days since you were here. I just miss you, I guess.

Emily

\---- 

December 1, 1943

Dear Emily,

Please send Millie my best. Considering her romantic bent, this might send the wrong message, but I’ll have to take that risk I suppose. You are right: she’s a lovely, spirited gal, and it’s dreadful that this grief has befallen her. Her children are fine as well. I’ve always wanted a family of my own, but don’t imagine it will ever happen. So, it’s pleasant to spoil someone else’s kids when I have the chance. Children don’t judge as readily as adults do – perhaps that’s why I like them. At any rate, it was my pleasure to stand for her at her husband’s wake, and I hope the townsfolk come to their senses eventually. Surely some of them feel pity for her? How could they not?

I am concerned that you have lingering effects from the air raid. Are you sleeping? Do sudden sounds startle or anger you? I am worried about you.

London is dull. My students are dull. Cryptography is dull. But the last time I said that, it encouraged you to visit and we were nearly bombed into oblivion. So, perhaps boredom is safer. Let it never be said that you don’t spice things up when you’re around! 

But Krampusnacht is approaching. I shall have to get some schnapps and a mask for the cavorting. I’m sure the MPs will be amused. Don’t you think? Hmmmm, perhaps not. If I had some more lieu time I’d come to Mildenhall for it. We could take Millie’s children out and make a frightful scene in the village square. Wouldn’t the old fishwives talk then, huh?

Well, a new year will be upon us soon, and with it, hopefully, new adventures. Perhaps 1944 will be the year we’ve been waiting for. 

With hope,  
Spencer  
London

p.s. Thanks for the clipping! I keep everything you send me – you should know that by now!

\---- 

[written on the back of a Krampus card]

Dear Spencer,

Happy Krampusnacht! I’ve been holding onto this since I found it in an oddities shop in September. The shopkeeper was impressed I knew what it was. It’s not worth much, but it is authentic (and I thought you’d appreciate that Krampus appears as studious as you in this – look at his little goaty glasses! You can tell that he takes his job seriously.). 

At the risk of tempting both Fate and Krampus, I have a proposition for you and I hope you’ll say yes. I’ll call you tomorrow at the barracks at 6 pm with the details. Trust me – it’ll be fun. We’ll spice things up like nobody’s business!

Thank you for always being around when I need you, and for your optimism. You have no idea how much that means to me.

Happy pagan gift-demon night, and I’ll speak to you tomorrow! 

Yours in oddness,  
Emily 

 

\---- 

 

He seemed shocked by the invitation, and she couldn’t blame him considering how much she’d complained about war morale events in the past. But she also loved to dance, loved to dress up and show off on those rare occasions when there was someone worth showing off _for_ , and even if he seemed like he’d rather walk into enemy fire, he’d said yes and made her giddy with the idea of getting him to dance. She’d borrowed a dress from another woman at the boarding house – red and a bit too racy to be worn anywhere but a dance hall or a night club – and she’d done her best to bristle up her old suede peep-toes and nearly gone cross-eyed trying to draw a fake stocking seam up both of her calves with a kohl pencil. But when she surveyed the results, she was pleased. She wanted to make an effort. It felt important, not only to feel like a normal dame for one evening – to have fun and feel alive – but also to show Spencer he was valued. She got the feeling that even now, after getting to know one another in person, he still didn’t think she’d go the extra mile for him. Or maybe he never expected that from anyone.

They met at the Underground station closest to the dance hall, and when he caught sight of her, he actually stumbled, and then tried to cover it up by shuffling his glasses as if they’d lied to him and made the sidewalk closer than he thought. The delay and shambling gave her a chance to look at him in a suit, since he was out of uniform for once. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, even though the weather demanded one. Instead he was in a dark navy 3-button with an almost imperceptible pinstripe, unfashionably trim but still with the wide shoulders every man sported, giving him a crisp silhouette than emphasized his height. A rich burgundy tie nestled neatly under a startling white collar, and beneath the jacket was a mismatched purple vest that somehow seemed eclectic and not like the mistake she was certain it was. He’d trimmed his hair for the occasion and tamed the soft waves on top with Brylcreem. Combined with his ever-present glasses, he looked like a university professor reluctantly going to a faculty mixer. There would be more fashionable Joes than him at the dance, but her chest tightened to see that he’d made an effort for her as well. Ungainly, he hopped towards her after brushing the scuff marks from his shoes, then he blinked through his glasses with undisguised awe.

“Wow. You look even better up close.”

“Lunkhead,” she swatted him gently, then snuggled into his side, looping her arm through his for the two-block walk to the dance hall. She was glad she hadn’t done up her own coat, so that he could appreciate it all. “Thanks,” she whispered, trying to hide her smile and hoping the evening drizzle wouldn’t ruin the kohl lines on her legs. His arm tightened around hers, but he said nothing. 

When they got to the hall, they could feel the music before they got inside, the band already jumping even though it was still early.

“Sorta makes the blackout curtains redundant, doesn’t it?” Spencer grumbled. “Bet the Krauts could find this place from 10,000 feet just from the noise alone…”

“Don’t be a killjoy,” she murmured as they walked in. “We’re going to have fun tonight, okay? You’ll see.”

“Emily, you know I can’t dance. What am I going to do? Watch?”

“No, I’m going to teach you, silly.” She slipped out of her coat.

“Oh.” He stood still in the flow of people and began to go a little green. “I think I’ll need a drink first.”

“That’s the spirit!” Emily cheered, choosing to ignore his apprehension as they drifted towards the bar. 

Two Manhattans later, Emily’s peep-toes were tapping and she was dying to join in the hoofing, but Spencer still viewed the proceedings with quiet terror while nursing his pint. She should’ve known something was off with him then, but her hope overrode every other impulse. 

Intrepid fellas shuffled up to her regularly, and it was the only time Spencer’s eyes could be ripped from the dance floor, though he never said a word to any of them as they offered to shepherd Emily around the joint. He left it to her to refuse them with a demure “No, thanks”, or “Some other time”, even once a “Hey, scram, would ya? I’m with _him_ ”. That brought his head up as he stared at her in shock while the offended suitor grumbled unrepeatable things as he shuffled down the bar. She turned to face him and pressed her advantage as he stood there, gape-mouthed.

“Are you ready, or what? I’m dyin’ to get out there…”

“Emily… I-I don’t think…” he stuttered.

“Quit thinking, genius. I’m not gonna let you down. Why would I do that? Tell me one reason why you think I’d choose to make you look foolish?”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the bar, stopping only long enough for him to put his beer down. He shuffled behind her until she found a spot she liked, out of the way of most of the crowd, then she turned to face his miserable expression.

“Do you want me to think of a reason, or do you want me to quit thinking? Your instructions are counter-intuitive.”

“Spencer…” she huffed with exasperation, and he twitched as if scolded, then nodded.

“Okay, okay… show me what to do. I’ll try.”

“It’s not painful, you know. All sorts of folks think it’s fun and no one really worries about whether you’re good at it or not.” She was arranging his arms and straightening his hips. He looked around worriedly as people hooted and shimmied to the jitterbug. “Don’t fret – we’ll wait for a slow number,” she assured as she watched his gaze.

“I’m not worried I’ll be bad – I already know I will be,” he said distractedly, watching the other dancers. Then he turned back to her. “I’m worried that everyone will see that, because you’re the most beautiful woman here by far, and _everyone_ is watching you.”

She stood there, dumbfounded, her chest making painful stabs and squeezes at random intervals. She suddenly felt her palms get sticky as his eyes watched her with a sort of sad resignation that he’d disappoint her. She absently rubbed her hands against her dress and then collected herself, raising her hands and waiting for his to meet them. They did, holding her lightly, as if she’d break away at any moment.

“Everyone isn’t watching me,” she murmured, concentrating on the song winding down.

“Okay,” he admitted. “The blind fellas aren’t watching you.”

She looked back at him and saw his mouth curling in a smile, but his gaze was still sad. It was disconcerting – she’d felt certain that he would welcome this chance after everything that had passed between them the night of the air raid. But perhaps she was mistaken. She wanted to do something to change that – anything, really. The band leader announced they’d be “getting all lovey now” and then launched into a drawn-out version of “I’ll Never Smile Again”. 

“This is a good one,” she breathed, relieved to have something to do instead of watching him be unhappy because of her. “Nice and slow.”

She gripped his hands tighter and began to shuffle along with the band. His eyes immediately shot to his feet and remained there as if their lives depended on it.

“Spence… Spencer, look up,” she coaxed, and then he glanced at her in confusion.

“How do I know what to do if I can’t look?”

“It’s just… you feel it. Feel the music, feel me… just move with me.”

“But I don’t know where to go-”

“You go wherever you want. Dancing was invented by men, and they lead, and that makes all of it a lot easier for them. Think about it – I have to do everything you do, but backwards and in heels.”

“Well, that sounds even crazier,” he seemed a little upset, and then stepped on her toe and jumped back, apologizing profusely and blushing. “Why would anyone do this when it’s so complicated, and you can’t look, and you’re supposed to make a plan with a partner without talking or even touching all that much?”

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” she soothed, wondering how he’d gotten this worked up and the first verse of the song hadn’t even finished yet. Then she dropped one of his hands and wrapped hers around his back drawing him against her. His eyes went wide and he stopped talking, just sputtering odd noises instead. 

“Here,” she murmured, looking him in the eye and pressing against him with her hips to show him which way to turn. He gave way to her pressure, and she did it again and again. They finished two turns before she smiled up into his bewilderment. “Put your hand across my back. It’s fine.”

He did as he was told and never once looked away from her, never to his feet. They spun through two more turns – this time, more smoothly – and she grinned at him. 

“Better, see? Just follow my hips. It’s the same pattern over and over again. Once you have it down, you don’t have to think about it. You should appreciate that, being a code breaker an’ all…”

“Patterns…” he mumbled absently, staring at her as if she’d burst out of the moon and descended into the dance hall. It made her feel shivery and she pressed a little closer without thinking, towards his warmth. His fingers tightened around hers, and then the hand along her back drew her nearer.

They spun around the outer edge of the dance floor where it was safe to be inexperienced. The band went into an extended clarinet solo, and when Emily finally tore her eyes away from him, she saw that most of the dancers had contracted into intimate knots gliding across the floor – girls looking softly into their partners’ eyes, fellas huddled around their girls protectively, whispering sweetnesses. She glanced back, but Spencer had never looked away, his gaze riveted to her, the warm depths seeing only her. She felt herself flush in his arms.

“This is nice,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“Are you happy?” he whispered, fingers tightening around hers for an instant.

“Yes.”

“Then I’m happy. That’s all I wanted from tonight.”

“Don’t you ever want to be happy for your own sake?” She pulled back a little to look up at him.

“O-of course I do. I’m happy now. I told you.”

“You don’t like this – not really. One song won’t change that.”

“I… I like holding you. That makes me very happy, for my own sake.”

He bit his lip, as if he’d let something slip that he shouldn’t have. Emily’s chest throbbed painfully, making the too-small bodice dig into her a little more. She twitched a little and he looked worried.

“I just wanted to give you a nice night out,” he rushed to explain. “I know there haven’t been many since you came to England. I just wanted… a special memory for you. That’s all.”

The sadness came back to his eyes and he faltered, clipping the lip of her shoe and staggering to steady them both.

“Damn,” he grumbled. “Can’t do anything right…”

She couldn’t figure out why he was so hesitant, retreating back into the shyness that she thought they’d moved past. “Spencer…”

“I, uh… sorry. I… I think I need some fresh air…” He released her suddenly, in midstep, and backed away so quickly, it felt as if she’d offended him horribly somehow. Her heart sped up until it felt as if it would launch out of her chest in confusion.

“Spence-”

“Sorry… I’m sorry…”

He turned quickly and marched through the crowd on the dance floor towards the doors, saying “Sorry” to those he bumped in his haste. He just… left her there, obviously and awkwardly, and between the anxiety and the hurt warring in her chest, the hurt won out. 

Then she got angry. 

When she crossed the floor after him, she didn’t have to apologize to anyone, her expression being so fierce that everyone simply moved out of her way. And he ended up being right: everyone was watching her.

She found him outside under the awning for the hall’s entrance, looking miserable and cold and trying to avoid getting soaked as well.

“Hey,” she belted out as she marched right up to him, hands on her hips, so angry that she didn’t feel the weather at all. _How dare he? After everything? When he’s always acted like a gentleman?_

He turned and seemed surprised to see her there, all ferocious and irate with him.

“What the hell was all that?” She jabbed her finger back at the dance hall. “All I wanted was a few dances with you. And all I got was one - _less than_ one, actually. You tell me how much you enjoy holding me, and then you abandon me in front of everyone like I just spat in your stew or something! I mean… what do I have to do, Spence? Isn’t it obvious that tonight was about _you?_ I chose _you_ , I wanted to do this _with you_. The quality of dancing wasn’t important. Dancing is just an excuse to hold someone close in public. I wanted to hold you close. In a good way, not the way we did during the air raid. We could’ve done something else, I guess, but I thought when you said ‘yes’ to this…”

Then his expression suddenly turned horrified and pale. Her stomach dropped painfully. Well, that put paint to it, didn’t it? She was way off about him.

“But then you humiliate me instead. Maybe I deserve that for getting my wires so crossed but… do you have _any idea_ how much time it took to put this get-up together?” She made a dramatic gesture towards her dress and then huffed, looking down and seeing kohl smudging down her damp legs. “Oh great. There go my bloody stockings…”

His arm looped around her waist and pulled her in. She huffed at the shock of it and glanced up a moment before his lips caught hers. Their noses bumped, lips meeting and then popping apart almost instantly in surprise. Then his other hand rose and cupped her face to still her as he dipped down again. This time, his aim was true. She gasped gently against him, mouth falling open and then sealing over his as they made a stronger connection. 

Her hand wiggled between them, splayed over his chest as she curled fingers into the lapel of his jacket to anchor them. He lingered, just holding her as closely as he could, and then he softly moaned as he let her slip from him before drawing her mouth back. She arched up on her toes, feeling the cold rain splatter across her bare skin through her peep-toes as she reached up, changing their angle, forcing them apart and then together again with a hush of relief. And they did that over and over as cabs with muted lights splashed by, and couples stumbled out into the wet night with giggles and whistles of encouragement. But they only heard the quiet slip and gasp as they broke apart and came together again. Emily’s fingers cramped, and her feet were soaked when they came up for air, breathing roughly against each other’s lips and blinking in wonder.

 _Well, now…_ , she thought. _Where had he been hiding that?_

“Emily…” Spencer whispered as his eyes slipped shut, arms tightening around her.

“Spencer, what the-”

“I got my orders,” he interrupted but the words were more air than voice. His face creased in anguish. “Southern France this time. Close to the Italian border.”

Emily began shivering. She’d heard the stories about the brutality of the Italian dictator, his unpredictability, and how difficult it was to break his hold over the southern part of Europe, which was hampering the Allied efforts to force the Germans back.

“No,” she gulped before she could stop it, curling her grip tighter in his jacket. “When?”

“I leave for Calais at the end of the week.”

“End of the week? Spencer!”

_No, no… not now… not when we’ve finally gotten a clue…_

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into her hair, and then left a soft kiss on her brow. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. Not this way. I just wanted… I wanted to give you a beautiful evening. Something you could look back on that would make you smile. ‘I remember I went dancing one night in London during the war…’”

The things he wasn’t saying were louder than what he was saying. He wanted to give her a sweet memory because he wasn’t coming back. He wanted her to remember him fondly after it was all over, when he was long gone.

“I didn’t mean to… make a fool of myself,” he concluded lamely.

“A fool? Why are you a fool?”

“Because I’ve been gone on you for ages – long before I knew what you looked like or how vibrant you actually are in person. Since that letter where you told me to call you Emily. All I could think was that you were _such_ a woman to offer me that sort of grace, after what brought us into each other’s lives.”

Evan’s face flickered in her mind and her chest got tight for a different reason. His death seemed so long ago, but that was the war for you – messing around with time. Each year could feel like a decade.

“I know I’m not the one for you, Emily,” he continued softly, staring off into the street and refusing to look at her. “But you’ve been so kind to me. You’ve become this… absolutely indispensable friend and… I guess, I couldn’t stop myself from falling for that. I’m not good with women and I understand that what I feel isn’t realistic or likely to be reciprocated. I was hoping to keep it to myself and spare us both the embarrassment of it.” He took a wet gasp in, still looking at the passing cars. “But you look so beautiful tonight, and you said you chose _me_ … I got carried away.”

“Embarrassment? Realistic?” Emily’s voice rose and was a certain pitch that he turned back to look at her once again, confused. “I kissed you BACK, you dolt! I’ve been trying to figure you out since I got here, trying to decide if you were sweet on me, or just being excessively diffident. You’ve held a lot of real estate in my mind for a while now, and when we met at King’s Cross, well… I was prepared to like you no matter what, but I never expected you to be such a cool glass of water as well.”

Spencer just blinked behind foggy glasses, mouth falling open a little, but saying nothing to that. She sighed loudly, and it ballooned out as a misty cloud in the cold rain.

“You weren’t truthful about how ginchy you are.”

“I… I’m not… _ginchy_ ,” he stumbled, eyes getting unbelievably big behind his glasses. “You… think of me… _like that?_ ”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t know why that comes as such a shock to you. I haven’t tried to hide it,” she sighed again. 

“Emily…” he whispered, hands tightening around her again.

“And now you’re shipping off,” her voice cut out on her suddenly. She took a moment to swallow it down and come back with something stronger. “Well, we’ve been through this before, right? How long is the mission for this time?”

His shock faded and then fell into sadness once more. One of his hands reached for hers wrapped in his lapel, and covered it with warm pressure, his thumb circling into her skin slowly. His eyes focused on that movement for a while.

“That’s the thing,” he murmured eventually. “This mission is different. There’s no return date. We’ve been assigned a communications man and will make updates _in situ_ rather than coming back to HQ. We’ll be going so far south that extractions will become exceedingly difficult. The mission is also open-ended: we can change the objective and parameters as we see fit in the field – in real time. I’ve done so many of these now, the Lt.-Colonel trusts my judgement and my ability to adapt the mission to the broader context of the French agenda.”

“So… you’re not coming back…” The words barely made it out of her mouth, her heart and lungs trying to block them before they became reality. “Oh…”

He shuffled her closer, dipping down to brush his lips hurriedly against her cheek.

“I’ll be back. When it’s over,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll come back, Emily. Now that I know you want me to return to you. For you.”

Her fist curled painfully under his as she ducked her face against his chest, hiding her dread and the one thought burning in her mind. “And if the war never ends? If you can’t survive that long?”

His arms tightened around her like a vise. He said nothing, and she didn’t bother begging or denying their reality. They just held each other close in the meager shelter of the dance hall awning and kept their individual regrets to themselves. The war had its own plans for people, and it was too powerful to circumvent. Her shaky breathing rattled her against him and he shuffled to shield her from the weather a little more. His warmth was a thin, fragile veil around her and it suddenly fired an overwhelming _‘it isn’t enough’_ throughout her body. She arched against him, finding his lips and kissing him until it wrung a helpless moan from deep within his chest.

“Here’s what we do,” she gasped when they broke apart. He stared at her in a half-lidded haze of someone hopelessly lost in a moment. “We spend every second we can together before you go. We say everything we’ve been too stilted to say before. We do… whatever we want to do. Propriety be damned.” She kissed him again, hard. “We have four days. We make the most of them.”

“Emily,” his breath came out of him in awkward gasps, then he gave in and kissed her with such force that he half bent her backwards with the power of it. Then he tore himself away, red-faced and eyes flicking to hers nervously, shaking his head. “That’s a mistake. You’ve heard about the trouble folks get into when they act all rash like that.”

“Are you worried about my virtue?” she smirked without humor. “Spencer, I’m not innocent about men. Surely, it’s obvious that I’ve been with a few Joes.”

“I don’t want to know the details,” he said quickly.

“Fine, but you should understand that I know what I’m getting into here. I accept responsibility for this choice.”

“Emily, it’ll just make the separation harder…”

“Well, it _should_ be hard, Spence. We’re dancing around the edges of… well, something I’ve never really felt before. If we don’t do anything about it, and you go away and…” The words caught in her throat again. “I think I’d regret that more than any trouble we could get into.”

She tugged his jacket a little too roughly, like she was trying to shake the notion into his head.

“How much of our lives will we let this war dictate? When does the sacrifice end, and we do what we want for ourselves?”

Spencer’s features creased as he warred with himself.

“I wanted so much more for you, Emily,” he murmured into her skin.

“But we have _this._ Don’t let it go without a fight, Spencer. Please.”

His hands cupped her face suddenly and drew her in for another heated kiss. “Okay,” he murmured when they parted, leaning his forehead against hers. “Four days. Where do we start?”


	3. Two Solitudes

She got an emergency leave, telling her CO that a gal pal in London had gotten herself in trouble and needed help getting out of it. In typical male fashion, he couldn’t wait to get off the telephone with her and readily agreed to her seventy-two hour leave without question. Spencer already had the time squared away with Lt.-Colonel Hotchner, to prepare for the mission, but he had to make arrangements to find a place where they could be alone together. He was staying in officers’ barracks, and Emily couldn’t afford a hotel or be viewed as a respectable woman staying in one unescorted. When he took her to a fancy building in west London the following afternoon, nodding to the doorman as he guided her through the lobby with a hand lightly across her back, she arched an eyebrow at him as he tried to hide a smirk.

“Are you secretly a cad?” she mocked quietly as they were closed into the lift.

“Hardly,” he chuckled. “An SIS officer maintains a flat here – to take his mistresses to when he’s in London.”

Emily’s eyebrows nearly launched off her face, but the lift doors opened with a soft ding, and Spencer directed her down the hall until they reached a door that led into a well-appointed, high-ceilinged flat that neither of them could have afforded even in peacetime.

“He’s a dandy sort,” Spencer continued, tossing the keys to a side table in the hall. “Comes from aristocratic stock with lots of money. Which is fortunate since he’s so dreadful at playing cards.”

“Oh my. Did you bilk him out of his flat?” Emily laughed.

“Sort of. He’s in debt to me for so much, he said I could use this place whenever he’s not around. The guy’s in Belgium now, poor sod…” He turned to her and smiled sheepishly. “Sometimes I come here just for a quiet night alone. And a hot bath. His bathroom is a marvel.”

“So, no secret assignations, huh?” she chuckled, but he blushed deeply. She walked up to him and pressed herself gently against his chest until he looked at her. “I was joking, Spencer. And it’s lovely. This will be perfect – better than I could’ve hoped for.”

“Really?” he said breathlessly, cheeks scarlet.

“Really.” She arched up and kissed him softly, lingering in a way she was discovering that he enjoyed. “We can pretend there isn’t a war, and we’re some fancy, continental couple living the high life together.”

“That would be something, wouldn’t it?” he brushed against her lips, eyes closing, and then taking her mouth again more forcefully. “I’d love it if that were real.”

“Maybe it will be some day,” she breathed back, smiling, but he didn’t respond. He just kissed her again until they were both lightheaded.

He took her to The Savoy for dinner and when she hesitated at the grandeur on display, saying, “You can’t afford this”, he smiled and tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow reassuringly.

“Sure, I can. We’re a swell couple, remember? Taking our evening repast in the manner to which we are accustomed.” He held his head high and walked them behind the maître d’ as if they belonged there, even if he was dressed in a workmanish grey wool suit. “Churchill eats here, you know. It’s one of his favorite places.”

“You’re an odd duck,” Emily murmured, but cuddled closer to his elbow, charmed by his dedication to their rouse. 

And they ate like lords, even if the lamb was most likely mutton, and the beef more probably horsemeat. They had claret and port, and a strange concoction touted to be ‘continental coffee’, that Spencer confirmed was what peasants in Europe drank.

“Such tiny cups,” Emily gazed at her coffee with suspicion.

“Yes, but wonderfully strong. You don’t need much,” he enthused back and grinned until she tried hers. It would certainly put hair on your chest, she had no doubt.

His smile never left, not throughout the entire dinner, and Emily felt herself blush more than once that just having a meal with her could produce such joy. They talked about anything but the war: home, travelling, even about Betty and the new carburetor Emily wanted for her that would make her more efficient.

“Tell me that you are seriously considering opening your own garage. You know… _after_ ,” he leaned towards her as if it were a secret plan they were discussing. “Giving it _serious_ thought.”

“I dunno,” she shrugged. “It’s a big risk. No bank will ever give me a loan.”

“Emily,” he tutted, not seeing the realities she worried about.

“It’s one thing to dream it, Spencer. It’s another to make it happen.”

“Yeah, it is. And the difference between them is hard work. That’s not something you’re afraid of.”

“You just refuse to see the limitations it would face,” she huffed quietly, fiddling with her napkin.

“I refuse to see limitations _for you,_ ” he corrected, bringing her eyes back to his and the warm, absolute belief living in them for her. “Change the rules of the game, Emily. If anyone can do it, it’s you. Deny the status quo if it won’t include you.”

“How…” she murmured and then shook her head at him. “Why do you think I can do this so much?”

He sat back in his chair and raised his hands to gesture to the restaurant around them. “Look at where you are? You were unsatisfied with what you were told you could have, and you made your way here. During a war. Just by force of will. Now, you’re eating where the Prime Minister dines in one of the capitals of Europe. You are working, every day, with people who are changing the face of history. You are a part of it because _you decided_ you should be. And when things look to stymie you…” His voice gave way, and sadness flashed across him for an instant before disappearing again. He reached for her hand. “You make your own story work within its confines. That’s who you are, Emily, and that’s why you should be the captain of your destiny, in wartime or in peace.”

Her throat got tight and her chest ached as his thumb circled warm patterns against her hand. Folks didn’t say things like that, did they? She’d never known a fella who was the least bit interested in her plans for the future – none of them ever asked, let alone suggested she do her own thing. What would she do if he… she shook the thought away before it formed in her head.

“People don’t say things like that,” she mumbled, curling her fingers into his on the table.

“I just did,” he replied softly and gave her a killing smile. She told him to drink his port, and then ordered him another for good measure.

When they made it out to the street, snow was floating on the night air and Spencer looked up into the darkened sky with wonder and a manic flush to him.

“I’ve grown to love snow. Didn’t see it until I was seventeen, but now I love the way it changes landscapes.” He glanced down at her, grinning. “Let’s go to Hyde Park.”

“What?”

“C’mon. It’s not far, and not too cold yet. Let’s go walk in the fresh snow, when it’s all quiet and perfect.”

“ _Such_ an odd ball,” she huffed, then she flapped her arms in resignation. “Okay, let’s go freeze our heinys off…”

He laughed joyously and hustled them to the nearest Underground station. 

The park was mostly abandoned, as expected given the blackout restrictions and the cold weather. But there were still a few folks about – couples enjoying the privacy. Spencer was bundled in a great wool army overcoat that made him look much more formidable than he was. Emily doubted he could feel a thing through it. Her coat was less substantial, but what it lacked in insulation it made up for in its ability to compel him to hold her close. They sauntered lazily through the paths of the park, snow lining their hats and shoulders, arms around each other and matching each other’s stride. To Emily, it felt like something they’d done forever, like an old couple grown comfortable in the other’s company over years and with experience. She slipped into it with relief, and then snapped out of it wondering why it was suddenly like that between them. Was it their deadline that was accelerating everything? Spencer had warned her about that.

Spencer talked about the constellations. He talked about a Jewish fellow named Einstein who proposed that both space and time could be flexible, warping and shifting around grand things such as planets and could, theoretically, make travelling to distant places possible through its manipulation. Emily watched him in wonder as he described it with the glee of a boy for a tale of adventure, and she thought, _sounds like magic… maybe HE is magic…_ Then he talked of how the stars were like trusted friends, how he’d used them more than once while overseas to guide him when maps or intelligence failed him. He caught her staring and squiggled his eyebrows under the brim of his trilby. 

“What is it?”

“Can his theory explain people?”

“Sorry?”

“Can this Einstein fellow explain how people fall into one another’s paths? Like us. How unlikely is it that we should come across each other, under such circumstances, then meet, and end up this way? You said he believes that time and space are malleable…”

“Given huge amounts of mass, yes,” Spencer shook his head. “Gravitational paths can be mathematically predicted to a degree, but life isn’t deterministic. The universe is still mostly chaos. Nothing can explain randomness.”

“So… there’s no point to this? To us? To this damned war?”

He stopped on the path and clutched her arms, holding her securely. “Of course, there’s a point to us. It’s just… _we_ decide what that point is. Not some grand, overarching force or entity. We make our fates, Emily. Just us, no one else.”

“Huh,” she sighed, looking away, then his voice and hands drew her back to face him. He leaned close and kissed the corner of her mouth, then the crest of her cheek, then her temple…

“I don’t like to think this is random either, Em. I burn with this – I want it all to mean something. I want to know that only you could fill what was missing from me. Only you could give me the stability that lets me do what I have to do.”

She kissed him quickly, cheeks heating at the gut-kick her shortened name elicited, and then snuggling into his great coat. The wind shifted, and the snow quickly changed to a stinging rain. He cursed under his breath as he hustled them off the path towards a cedar hedge with large, drooping branches.

“We can wait it out here,” he mumbled when they shuffled under the shelter. “Sorry. This was a bad idea, I guess. Blasted London weather…”

Their hideaway was dark and close, and surprisingly dry due to the thick overgrowth. They watched a few couples running along the path, and she thought their plan was far more sensible than getting drenched and cold. She felt him shift, and then she saw him unbutton his coat and spread it wide to include her. She huddled tightly against him with a contented hum, his warmth immediately overtaking her as he wrapped the coat closed around them.

“Okay?” he whispered at her ear.

“Yes,” she sighed, squirming against him a little for fun. Then they went still and watched the evening rain in silence.

A few minutes passed that way – Emily feeling safe and sated – and then Spencer shifted again. She felt his face press into the rolling waves of her hair along her neck. It was just the soft flutter of his breathing at first. Then, after a long moment where she held her breath, he nuzzled almost imperceptibly against her neck, tickling her with her hair. She held still and waited. He tried again, this time with a little more pressure, until she felt his lips brush her skin finding their way through her hair. He sighed against her, refusing to kiss, and the hush of air made her prickle all over with flashes that cycled hot and cold, over and over. He didn’t try anything else, so when the prickles were on the verge of driving her mad, she stretched her neck to give him more, and then wiggled closer. He made a questioning noise, but she just nodded. Then his lips haloed her neck in warmth before closing and sucking with a slow, delicious pull that went straight to her guts and flipped them. She tried to wiggle closer still, but discovered that she couldn’t, and just whimpered a little instead waiting for him to move again. She felt his tongue flick shyly, disappearing almost as soon as she felt it, which was maddening, and then he placed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss in the same spot. He held on for a moment, and then moved up her neck a fraction, with the same luxurious kiss, and then he moved again, and again…

She twisted suddenly, turning in his arms under his coat, until their chests pressed together. It was dark under the hedge, but she still caught his look of shock in the spotty moonlight. She curled up and kissed him roughly before he could get a word out, and he moaned quietly, tightening his arms to keep them warm and dry together. She abused him a little, taking deep pulls and then savagely realigning their mouths before he could catch up. She flicked her tongue against his stunned lips, dipping in quickly and producing a whimper he tried to tamp down. Then he was moving against her as she was against him, lost in their quiet gasps and the gentle hush when they moved together. She gave up on his mouth and moved lower, down his long throat, against his pulse that was rabbiting frantically. She spread her palms wide over his abdomen, sliding her hands down to his slim hips and digging her nails into the wool to pull him against her. He gasped a little, still locked in holding the coat closed around them and unable to do anything else. She scored his neck with her teeth, and then bit down slowly, dragging it out as he stretched his neck above his pristine collar. She pressed against him even harder, delighting when he tried to shuffle them closer, and then huffing when he got too excited and then jerked away from her with an apology.

“Why?” she breathed against his throat as she tried to wrestle him close again. “Isn’t that what you want?”

“Not…” he gasped quietly, almost lost in the rain plinking through the hedge bows. “Not proper…”

“We’re not worrying about ‘proper’, remember?” She kissed him roughly, and for the first time, he kissed her back with the same enthusiasm.

“Em, we’re in a park,” he gasped against her mouth. “Under _a bush_ …”

“Take me back to the flat, then. Blast the rain. You’re going to make a mess of me anyway, I hope…”

He ripped himself away from her mouth and then staggered back a half-step, looking dazed and worried. 

“What?” she gasped.

“Em… I… I…” His gaze flicked away and then he turned his head away as well. She grabbed a handful of his jacket and shook him gently until he looked at her again.

“Just say it,” she murmured.

“I’ve… only ever been with one girl. In college. And it was a mess.” 

“That’s fine. Really, Spencer…”

“I want it… to be special…” he looked away again, humiliated.

She poked a hand up out of their shared coat and cupped his jaw. “It will be. However it turns out, it will be because we both want that. We make our fates, right?”

He nodded into her hand, still looking worried, but also something else.

“Take me home, Spence,” she murmured, and then smiled. “I want to hold you, like the fancy, worry-free couple we are with all the time in the world.”

He made a quiet, sad noise in his throat, but then he leaned in and kissed her before shuffling his coat and pushing them back out into the rain. They were silent the whole way back to the flat, cuddled close on the tram, staring at one another. He walked them through the lobby of the building like he owned the joint, but when they made it inside the darkened apartment, his shoulders sagged and his hesitancy came back. She peeled him out of his coat, now drenched and smelling of wet wool, and flipped off his hat that she sent sailing to the hall floor with a smile and a cheer that made him smile back. Then she held her arms out and made him do the same for her, kissing her neck sweetly as he pulled her coat from her shoulders. After that, he surprised her, bending low and caressing her calf until his hand cupped her ankle, lifting it to remove her shoe. Then he repeated it with the other, skimming a heated path with his palm as he settled her foot to the floor. She shivered against him.

“You are a gentleman,” she whispered as he straightened before her, arms sliding around her waist.

“I try, but you also have pretty feet.”

“You might be the first fella to say that.”

He pulled her close and kissed her, not politely, but with a longing that made her shaky. She rose up on her toes and pressed back into him from breasts to hips, her hands skimming upwards and sinking into his short waves. He moaned into her mouth and she smiled against his.

“Like that?”

“Very much,” he sucked into her jawline.

“I like your mouth,” she whispered. “You’re a good kisser.”

“Yeah?” he huffed in surprise at her neck. “Well, whaddaya know…”

She giggled and he pulled her hard against him, revealing his excitement. She whooped a little, and then curled a hand around his neck and a calf along his leg.

“ ‘Kay, time to move this to the bedroom…”

“Oh. Right.”

He pulled back awkwardly, shifting the belt of his pants discreetly, and then laced his fingers through hers, leading her gently by the hand through the darkened flat. The place was swathed in blackout curtains, so it was darker than a cave, but he navigated the space easily without tripping or bumping. He told her to stand at the threshold as he plummeted into the gloom, finding a bedside lamp that lit the room with a soft, golden glow. There were still plenty of shadows – when he turned back to her, she couldn’t make out his face – but she had no problems walking to meet his outstretched hand as he curled her close again. 

“I don’t care for the dark,” he confessed, nipping her lips.

“Really? I sorta like it. It makes things secret.”

“Is that what you want? For this to be a secret?”

“No, I want to see you.” She kissed him and lingered against his mouth, feeling him breathe excitedly. “But I like how darkness brings things closer. Darkness is intimate.”

“No one will ever have this moment but us. _That_ feels intimate to me,” he flicked the words over her mouth and it was her turn to moan a little.

“Gosh, you might be better at this than you think,” she mumbled before taking his mouth.

They kissed a little longer, and then Spencer tapped her with his hips by accident and she wheezed a gust of laughter.

“What?” he asked.

“Take off your clothes.”

He looked momentarily paralyzed, and then he ducked his head and began to unbutton his jacket as discreetly as he could. Once he had it off, she stepped forward and put her fingers to work on the buttons of his shirt while he watched in amazement, trying to unknot his tie.

“Shouldn’t you… uh…” he stumbled. She laughed.

“When we’re done with you, you can help me.”

“Oh,” he gulped, and then put greater effort into freeing himself from his tie.

When the shirt and undershirt were liberated to the floor, Emily’s fingers worked his belt. He went still all over, hands dangling at his sides as if he didn’t know how to use them. She bit her lip as she slid the buckle loose and poked the button through its eyelet. She’d never consciously undressed a man before. Most we too eager to get to the main event to allow that to happen. When she slowly slid the zipper down and let her hands drift to his waistband to pull his pants from him, his fingers wrapped around hers and stopped her.

“It’s okay…” she murmured, and then gently worked one of her hands free, to skim down into his trousers and outline the edges of him.

He hissed, his hips tapping slightly without his consent.

“Never met a Joe this patient,” she whispered, and then leaned in to give him a bolstering kiss. “You’re the tops, Spence. No foolin’.”

He made a slightly tortured sound and then released her other hand. She took a breath, and then slowly drew his trousers and underthings down his legs, bending when they pooled at his feet and helping to free him. She heard his breath rattling out of his chest above her, but when she glanced back up at him, she was the one who had trouble breathing. The edges of him were highlighted by the glow from the bedside lamp, showing off his sharp lines and scant build. The rest of him was in shadow – his face, his chest, his hips. But it emphasized his height, the shape of him, the rough breathing that made his shoulders heave, and the shaking that made him vibrate everywhere.

“Jeez, Spence. You’re one handsome sight,” she whispered before she could think better of it, watching his silhouette twitch when he heard it.

She stood quickly before he had a chance to lose his nerve again, and then stepped against him, gently pulling his glasses off and listening to him suck a sharp breath in through his teeth.

“Now, help me,” she said, turning to offer him the zipper lining her dress down her back. 

Her bum brushed him when she turned, and he pushed closer. She sighed to feel him and not hear an apology or a frantic attempt to get away. She wiggled a little and he breathed hard, tickling the hair along her neck, then she heard the zipper whir as he slowly drew it down. The dress fell open to the small of her back, then she jumped a little when she felt the heat of his hands slipping inside. They stilled for a moment.

“Is it okay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Then his hands moved again, smoothing up the bare skin of her back on either side of her spine, skipping over her brassiere and then cupping her shoulders before pushing the fabric over them. The dress pooled at her waist and she hummed, then he silenced her by stepping closer until his chest pressed into her back. His hands curved around her waist and pulled her in as he sighed into her shoulder. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed, and she shuddered against him in time with the fluttering of her chest. “Can’t believe it.”

“Can’t believe what?” she whispered unsteadily when his hands began to move, tracing warm paths up her torso and outlining her with a light touch. She arched and tried to push herself into his hands while still keeping the warm contact at her back.

“Can’t believe we’re here together. That you want me.” He breathed it along her neck, and she lost herself in the shiver it produced until the words hit home.

“Why wouldn’t I?” She turned to face his shadow in the gloom, pressing herself firmly into his chest in the process. He mumbled as if he were surprised, but she didn’t know if it was her closeness, or her question that provoked it. “Spencer… I was attracted to you the moment you said hello to me at the train station.”

He made an odd sort of shaking against her, his hands curling over her back lightly. “R-really?”

“Yes,” she whispered, and then dipped forward to kiss him. His mouth was open in what she assumed was shock. “I’ll admit, that’s never happened to me before – gone with a single look. So, I guess that’s why I was so confused about it. I didn’t really know what to do.”

“W-well…” he choked and then tried again. “That’s makes two of us.”

She laughed gently against his mouth and felt him smile. “Help me out of this, will you?” she asked again softly.

His hands skimmed down to the fabric pooling around her hips, then he slipped his fingers under, against her skin, and nudged the dress over the swell of her. It made a delicate hissing sound as it fell and then bundled at her feet. She stepped out of it and then his hands were at her waist skimming the edge of her panties.

“I… uh… I always thought… ladies wore more underthings…” he murmured nervously, as she stood before him in next to nothing.

“You mean girdles and garters and hose?” she asked as she wiggled to release her brassiere. There was no way he was going to figure it out on his own. She shimmied out of the straps and let it fall away into the darkness like her dress. He gasped next to her, and she reached out, capturing one of his hands in hers and pulling it up to her breast. His fingers moved with hers as they outlined her together. The pad of his index finger skipped over her, and then again, fascinated as she hardened under his touch. He gasped quietly and then firmly cupped her as she breathed shallow and marveled at how warm thin, long hands could be. 

“All that nonsense went the way of the dodo when people discovered they needed the material for other things,” she breathed unsteadily when he kneaded her, then outlined her once more before drifting a single finger between her ribs and down her chest. “Thanks to the war, all us girls are footloose and fancy-free…”

He didn’t say anything, just huffing in quick bursts in front of her as his hand descended. Then his fingers found their way to her hips again and rested there a moment. He breathed in suddenly, brushing his chest against hers so that she could feel his nervous vibration, and then his fingers slipped to her panties, circling their seams lightly over and over.

“M-may I?” he asked, and she nodded in the dark because her mouth had gone bone-dry in an instant.

His fingers flicked under the edges and slowly drew them down, achingly over the rise of her hips. Then they, too, fell away into the darkness and he pressed his palms flat along her upper thighs as if proving to himself that she was real. He choked quietly, his hands warming and then smoothing around her until he reached back and pulled her slowly against him from thighs to shoulders. She held her breath as she leaned against him, feeling every sharp edge, every muscle, every inch of skin between them. She turned her face, hissing out that held air in a long huff against his collarbones as he arched himself, placing an absent kiss in her hair. Her hands wrapped him up, crossing over his spine, as she made a soft noise against his throat. There was nothing but heat, and racing pulses, and the solid assurance of each other together. His hands tightened in return as he shifted his hips and slid obviously against her thighs. He shuddered suddenly and went still, his heart pounding against her chest.

“It’s okay,” she mouthed into his neck.

“I… I’m not sure… I want to know how to please you.”

She couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d suddenly called her by someone else’s name. No fella had ever asked about _pleasing_ her. Mostly, she was hoping for mutual enjoyment, but was prepared to handle things if it just ended up being him. For once, she didn’t have a clue what to say.

“I… umm…” His voice petered out into an embarrassing squeak. Oh boy. She’d better figure this out.

“Uh, your hands are… they are nice. On me, I mean.” She was having a hard time catching her breath. “They’re warm and… the teasing is nice…”

“Teasing?”

“The way they move. All light and careful.”

“Oh.”

He started to move his hands over her again. Not in an obvious way – grabbing for what most would grab for – but in methodically tickling loops and curves: her hips, the small of her back, the long path of her spine, the lines and dips of her shoulders, down her slender arms, skipping to the delicate areas along her ribs that made her squirm against him… Christ, he was just _so warm…_

“I’ve heard…” He was breathing hard against her neck, heart still pounding back into her where their chests rested together. “…men in the barracks… men talk… brag, really. It’s n-not to be trusted, I’m sure…”

“What’s… not to be trusted?” she gasped as he brushed her side above her waist, tickling her unexpectedly.

“They say… French men do things to their ladies. Things with their mouths _on_ their ladies…”

She went completely still for a moment. “What sort of things?”

“Uh, well…” His hand drifted down to rest flat just above her pelvic arch. He pressed it there, telling her that he wouldn’t do anything without her permission. Then his fingers twirled the upper edge of her curls. “Men talk about… getting a girl going with their fingers…” His fingers slipped a fraction lower and her core pinged, making her wiggle at the sudden pull. _Oh._

“Sure, I know about that.” She figured every dame knew how to take care of frustration. But she’d never heard a Joe mention it.

“Well, uh… from what I understood from the stories… French men do that _with their mouths_.”

And the ping became a jolt as she shuddered against him. His hand stopped moving, and one cupped her hip reassuringly to steady her.

_Mouths? What would that feel like? If it came anywhere close to what her fingers could do…_

“Emily? Are you okay?”

“I’ve, uh… I’ve never heard of that,” she gulped, trying to sound under control. “Sounds like… I dunno what it sounds like.”

“They say the French are the best lovers,” he kissed her neck tentatively. “They invented a kiss, after all. They must know a thing or two.” He kissed her again, this time dipping in and leaving a wet halo in the divot between her collarbones. “I thought… since you like the way I kiss…”

She started shaking against him.

“… maybe you’d like that too.”

“oh,” she whimpered, and then covered it by grabbing his jaw and drawing him back to her mouth. They took long pulls from each other, he holding her so close that they nearly tilted off balance. They slipped together, again and again, as his grip tightened, and her ache grew more insistent. Her mind had latched onto his suggestion and worried it like a soup bone, and the center of her slowly wound tighter the more she turned it over. They broke apart with a gasp, him moaning a little at the sudden loss of her, and she dug her fingers into his back to let him know she didn’t want him anywhere but right here.

“It’s fine if you don’t-” he started breathlessly.

“No one’s ever asked me what I wanted before.”

“Oh. I see.”

“It would probably feel great. Fingers… umm… they feel pretty great sometimes, so…”

“Ah.” It was his turn to start shaking against her. He began nodding a little too vigorously. “So…”

“If you want to, Spence.”

“I do. I…” He breathed in suddenly. “Would you show me how you liked to be touched? _There?_ That would be helpful, I’m sure.”

A rush of heat lit through her at his question. This certainly wasn’t going to be like any experience she’d had before, and that realization suddenly made her nervous. He wasn’t like other Joes she’d known, so why should his intimacy be something conventional? She pushed back from him and found herself chuckling that the tables had turned and now she was worried about how to be with him. Lost in her own head for an instant, she didn’t think how he’d react to her movement. She caught his expression dimly in the shadows and he looked anxious, as if he’d said or done the wrong thing. She made a quick humming noise to soothe him, then raised one hand to say, ‘hold on a sec’, and then held his gaze as her other hand slowly drifted to her center. His eyes sharpened to her moving hand, a wrinkle of concentration appearing along his brow that made him look absurdly like a studious child.

“Have you ever tried this?” she whispered unsteadily as her fingers slipped down. She was suddenly worried about the silence between them, and she didn’t know why. He never looked away from her hand, and she could hear him breathing roughly through his mouth. After a moment he shook his head.

“N-no…” he gulped. “I… I understand the p-physiology though…”

That was like saying you understood the breaststroke without ever going swimming. Her fingers skimmed over her and she bit back a whimper to find herself already so flushed. Perhaps it was his diffidence, even in private and excited. Perhaps it was her sudden looney fit of nerves. Perhaps it was the way he shook in front of her, just inches away though it felt like miles, tension lining him and radiating back to her like heat with how hard he was holding himself in check. A scorching rush ran through her again, drawing a slow pull down at the center of her, and she pressed her fingers more forcefully against herself to keep it at bay. But she was already eager, her fingers slipping too easily, and her breath caught loudly as the radiating need began to pulse rhythmically from her center along with her heartbeat. She tilted her head back and moaned a little, even though she was only supposed to be instructing, not focusing on her pleasure for her own sake.

“What… what does it feel like?” he choked quietly, bringing her back to herself and away from the pressure of her fingers. 

When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, not her hand, his mouth open in wonder, still shaking as if he had a fever. She swallowed hard staring at him, overcome with the need to have no space between them at all. Would he be gentle and polite inside her, she wondered, and her body pinged at that. Then that thought was immediately followed by, _or will he lose his grip on that longing he’s been holding back for so long?_ She moaned again, wanting him violently in that instant, and slid a finger inside her to bite back the rest of it. His anxiousness returned as he watched her, not understanding at all, and she shuddered out a long, unsteady breath.

“It’s intolerable,” she whispered, watching him intensely, wondering which way he’d break. “This sweet pulling ache at the very core of you, wanting something from without… waiting for it to complete you… Sometimes it almost hurts.”

She didn’t know what she was saying. Nonsense, really. But he licked his lips and took a step towards her as if he understood her anyway. Then, through her wanton haze, she had a practical thought. He wasn’t wearing his glasses; perhaps he couldn’t see her clearly in the shadowy room. She stepped forward and clasped his hand. He twitched a little, but then whimpered when she lined his fingers against her, moving them much lighter and slower than she wanted. She bit her lip hard and tried not to roll her hips into their hands, but she blew a few critical circuits when he gasped hard and then lined himself along her from thighs to chest.

“You’re so… wet,” he whispered almost shyly. Then his fingers began moving without her encouragement, exploring her, mapping her edges, and with more determination than she expected. When he spoke again, his voice was closer, more urgent, and she shivered in his hands to know that the longing had won out. “Unbelievable,” he mouthed along her cheekbone.

“You keep saying that,” she twisted until she caught his lips with hers, pulling him in with a franticness she could no longer hide. “You should _believe_ me…”

“I do, Em,” he husked before looping an arm around her waist and pulling her hard against him and to his mouth. His hand kept working her, though it was pinched and uncomfortable for him, she was certain. The radiating pull burst to another level, and she bucked her hips into him to get more contact. He moaned into their kiss, the reverberation snaking through her and making her tingle everywhere. She wanted them to get going, but the way he was kissing her – crushed close, searching and deep – she wanted it to go on and on, until her legs gave up and they were a crumpled pile with their clothes on the floor. She didn’t know that a kiss could be more wanton than sex, more needy, more intimate, more raw…

She cried softly when he slipped a finger inside her, probably by accident, and he went still until she rolled up on her toes and pressed against him in waves that only made the ache hurt more.

“Okay?”

She nodded against his neck frantically and kept rolling her hips, wanting so much more. Maybe she’d have to ask. “Spence…” she moaned wetly, but nothing else came out.

“Em…” he husked, arm tightening around her waist as he almost lifted her off her feet pulling her in. “You’re so… so… not what I expected this to be…”

“What?” She tried to pull back, an uncomfortable mix of incendiary anticipation and nervous worry. Had she gone too far? Had she stepped too far beyond tempting and become unseemly instead? The heat of her body was suddenly lanced with an icy spike of self-doubt.

He let her go and dropped to his knees without warning. She almost toppled over him at the complete loss of his support. Her hands flashed to his shoulders as she huffed, dismayed, and then she whooped in surprise when his grip found her hips again and held her close.

“Gonna try this…” he mumbled as she looked down at the top of his head, brain filling up with all sorts of necessary questions.

“Spence, you oughta give a girl some wa-”

Her voice gave out when he nuzzled into the V of her thighs and breathed a hot, anxious breath over her. Then his hands slid to her thighs to hold her still, trembling though his grip was firm. An anxious moment passed, then he leaned in to give her the lightest outline of his tongue. It was tentative, and just through the thatch of her curls, but her whole body focused painfully on the barely-there sensation like she was being ripped open.

“oh…”

His tongue skimmed again, this time lower and with a curiosity that ended up finding her edges and lapping them once with great precision. Her fingers dove into his hair, making him jump, and then he lapped her again when they both settled. She felt his mouth pull away microscopically as he breathed a heated ‘hmmmm’ against her skin. Her center sent out a booming ripple that buckled her knees, and his grip tightened on her instantly.

“Em?”

Jesus Roosevelt Christ, how could anything feel better than fingers down there?

“Am I doing it wrong?” he asked. She had no idea. “I-I’m sorry… maybe-”

“Don’t stop,” she gritted through her teeth, her body now a riot of wanting and not knowing simultaneously. “Please, Spencer, _please_ …”

He made an uncertain noise, which nonetheless was so close to her body that it set her vibrating painfully again. Then he nuzzled in and outlined her gently while she bit her lip so hard she almost drew blood. Her whole body felt like a pulsating artery, flowing with energy, waiting to burst into activity. She pinged hard between her legs, a narrow focus demanding her attention in a way she couldn’t ignore. She felt her cheeks flush and then she leaned her head back, breathing deeply as her hair trailed down her back and tickled.

“Spence…” she gasped, feeling sordid as her thoughts were swamped with one purpose. “My center… the center of where you are… need to… feel you… please try.”

There was a long moment of nothing, followed by a hushed, ‘oh!’, as if he’d just remembered an appointment he had. Then his tongue fumbled and found that core of aching focus and swirled it gently like something breakable. Her eyes flashed open as she stared at the darkened ceiling and gasped through the feeling. Warm and slick, lighter and more attentive than her fingers, like peeling away parchment paper. He circled again and again as she made strange, soft sounds and her body remained rigid in his hands; she wanted to move, to push him closer, but was afraid to lose the delicious teasing trace of him. But then he made a choice on his own. His tongue receded, and she felt a halo of intense heat an instant before his lips circled her bud and sucked her in. 

The radiating pulse exploded as all of her energy rushed to her hips and made them move against the vivid pressure of his mouth. She cried out in surprise to find herself suddenly so close to the edge without any warning. Her hands tightened in his hair and pushed him closer without care, without thinking, and she felt herself go liquid against his lips and tried not to feel shame at that. He made a confused noise at her complicated reaction, and then there was a surprised purr that vibrated every sensitive inch of her. She whimpered, wanting to tell him to hold on for a moment, but then his tongued lapped into her hungrily. Again and again he dove, his jaw scraping her inner thigh at an odd angle, as he made quiet, contented noises. She withstood the throbbing joy of it for a long, breathless moment, her body acting alone rolling her into his mouth and dragging her hands through his waves until he was a glorious moaning mess beneath her. Then she felt the crest build inside her – at first just a tiny flicker of intention, then a sure and steady rising of pure physical power – and she tore herself from him with a cry of grief. He stared at her, blinking and confused, mouth bright in the shadows, on his knees with his hands dangling in the air from where he’d held her close a moment before.

“W-what…” he gasped, voice low and hoarse.

She bent low and whimpered as her whole body protested what she’d done. Her fingers moved to the wet mess he’d left behind and slid through it to ease the terrible pull. He watched her, half scared half mesmerized, with that same wrinkle of concentration on his brow.

“Em,” he whispered carefully.

“Bed,” she gasped as if she’d been running for miles. “Take me to bed. Please, Spence.”

“Oh, uh… okay.”

He rose to his feet and wavered a little as if lightheaded. It was only then she realized that he was more worked up than she was. He wiped his mouth, looking confused for a second, then his stare changed, and it made her flush everywhere as he watched her. Then he stumbled forward, his arms outstretched as if he might carry her to the bed. 

“Lie down,” she said gently. He stopped and blinked again, then did as she asked, his profile suddenly coming to life as the light from the bedside lamp washed over his body. “On your back…”

“What do you… are you…”

“Hush, Spence.” 

She watched him shuffle up the bed and then settle, eyes wide, curious from tip to toes. She followed him onto the bed and into the light, unsteady from the wound-up conflict circling inside her, and distracted by the flow of him before her, all arms and legs and flat planes of a determined body. There was an old surgical scar along one of his calves, as well as circular scars above his hip, along his rib cage, and one in his shoulder. Bullet wounds, she realized with cold certainty. She shuffled over him, avoiding his hard-on, and coming to rest looking down at him in the sheets. He was staring at her open-mouthed, arms lax on the mattress, waiting for her. Her gaze drifted to the wound along his shoulder, obviously the newest with the scar tissue still raised and pink. Her fingers reached out and skimmed it as he held his breath under her. She circled it, and then dropped her lips to it for a slow, lingering kiss. 

“Emily…” he breathed, but it sounded as if it hurt.

Her lips left his chest and found his mouth instead, sealing his whimper securely as she licked and pulled at the new way he tasted. It felt as if everything in her fluttered like a flag in the wind, buffeted by the unexpected newness of this moment. He opened his mouth slightly, a quiet invitation, and she pushed in with a tiny moan as her body still throbbed with what he’d started. His hands rose to her neck, then her hair, burying themselves but holding her carefully at the same time; still diffident even in his wanting. His kiss grew more heated, turning them and opening her as she had opened him. They connected and slipped, connected and slipped, tipping each other closer, lost together in this quiet pocket of night. Emily pulled away with a sigh and a slip of their lips, looking down into his awestruck flush.

“God, you’re something, Spence,” she breathed without considering it first, all heart and nothing else. He smiled back at her as his fingers tangled in her hair.

“You’re really something, too,” he whispered carefully. “Is everything all right? Was… what I did okay?”

She ignored his question. “What was it like?” she asked, curious to discover if it shocked him as much as her.

Spencer blinked, and his cheeks pinked up, but he didn’t look away from her. 

“It was… exciting,” he said after swallowing hard. “The sounds you made, the way you held me so close… I _felt_ you on my lips… how eager you were becoming. I didn’t know it could work that way.”

She closed her eyes and let a pulse ripple over her at his words. His hand tightened in her hair and brought her back to his gaze.

“Why did you stop me?” he whispered, leaning up to brush her lips with his. “I want more. I want to know how excited you can get…”

She moaned a little and then lowered herself down until the heat of his thighs met hers and he was trapped between them. His eyes rolled shut and he bit his lip. She watched him carefully as her center throbbed and then she slowly dragged herself along his length for a little friction. It took her edge off for a moment until it came roaring back, stronger than before, and his eyes flicked open and pinned her with the same ferocious longing she’d seen earlier.

“I stopped you because it felt great. Too great. And if I let it go, it would’ve been over too soon, and we wouldn’t get _here_.”

One of her hands slipped between them and fumbled until she found the tip of him pressed hard against her abdomen. She circled him as he’d circled her, and he made a similar gasping sound. Her finger came away wet and she rubbed her hips against him slightly without permission.

“Need you with me,” she shivered, making all of their sensitivities sharpen as their breath turned shallow at the same time.

He ducked in and kissed her neck suddenly, sucking hard and sure enough to leave a mark. “Want to be with you, Em,” he gasped. “Desperate to be with you…”

She twisted and caught his mouth with hers, kissing him fiercely until he whined and stretched under her. Her hand found him again, palmed him awkwardly because they were too close, and when his mouth popped away from hers at the shock of contact, she took advantage and lined them up.

“Em-”

“Hold on…”

She pressed him to her, and before she could slide down, his hips jabbed up as he yelped quietly, just barely slipping into her without warning. They both froze for an instant, and then both tried to move at the same time, but in different directions. He slipped free again.

“Dammit,” he grumbled, and she felt the heat blooming across his cheek where he’d pressed it into hers.

“Steady there…”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay just… let me, alright?”

“Okay. Sorry. I’m sorry…”

“Shush, Spence. It’s fine. We’re both just eager is all.”

“Yeah. I just wanted… I thought I was doing well…”

She lined him up again and slid down while he was distracted. His voice trailed off into a whimper as she came to rest in his lap, and she took a moment to _feel_ it all – just her in her own skin – before she opened her eyes and looked back at his blown-out expression. Then she leaned in for his mouth, both of them groaning with the way they moved together.

“Jesus Roosevelt Christ, you _are_ doing well,” she mumbled an instant before she kissed him silly.

His hands flashed to her hips and pulled her as close as he could. They both hissed into their kiss at the movement but didn’t come up for air. Emily rolled her hips into him and he skip-caught inside her in such a way that she did it again, and again, until his lips popped from hers to let out a pitiful moan. She leaned away, sitting up straight and arching herself so he got an eyeful in the light from the bedside table. His gaze was lost, adoring, all dark, sparkling intensity against his rosy face and tangled hair. _I wonder what I look like to him,_ she thought for an instant before her eyes rolled shut and she got lost in their slow, rocking rhythm. 

She felt his hands creep up from her hips, skimming warm paths over her, tracing lines along her stomach, under the fullest part of her breasts, up to smooth her nipples, and then stretching further to cup either side of her neck. His hips began to roll with hers, pushing her incrementally higher, making her ache everywhere, full of him and yet wanting more. Her hands moved to cover his at her throat and she leaned her head back, just riding his waves, with the sureness of his hands around her, and the ripples pulling her tighter and tighter. 

“Stunning…” he choked, and she looked down to watch them move together, to see the way his gaze had narrowed to hers, all surprise and joy and gratitude rolled together in a sloppy, feeling mess. 

Then he growled, leaning up swiftly and bracing them both with an arm bent backwards, his other one slipping down and around her waist to pull her into the cradle of his lap. His legs bent under her, inadvertently spreading her wider, and suddenly they had a new angle that made everything sharper and more immediate. They hissed as one, him knocking his forehead against hers as they rolled and throbbed. “What have you done?” he whispered, eyes closed, lips haloing hers. “How will I ever leave you after this?”

“Oh, Spence…” she curled tighter, mouth muffled against his ear, her crest rising again, higher, faster, with crushing power this time. “Spencer, love…”

His hips jabbed up suddenly, and she cried out, but unlike before he didn’t ask if she was all right. He just did it again, and again, choking against her like he was dying. His hand on her back skimmed up to hook over her shoulder, and then he pulled her into him as he drove up at the same time. She called out his name and he made a strangled ‘ah’ sound at her ear, but he repeated it over and over until they were in a desperate rhythm with it, the bed creaking and knocking the nightstand loudly. She called his name until it sounded meaningless, clutching him as close as possible until he broke her open with a rush and a relief; the ache so deep that she went limp in his grip after the wave passed. She dimly felt him rock beneath her, her pulse pounding out all other sounds in her head, and her mouth working frantically against his throat to catch her breath. 

He collected her against him, his bracing hand joining the other across her back as he leaned them forward and pushed into her as much as he could for a blinding instant. The tension in him stretched out, arms becoming steel around her, then she felt him let go, her name falling wetly from him as he pulsed into her. 

His hips slowly rolled, then subsided. His breath eased, heated where he’d pressed himself into her shoulder, in even bursts. But still he held her painfully close, his fingers skimming tiny circles as he rocked them as if he’d forgotten he was doing it. It went on for minutes, and finally Emily found the energy to shuffle against him.

“Hey,” she mouthed into his neck.

“Hey,” he whispered against her shoulder.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “Just don’t want this to end. Couldn’t we just… stay here forever?”

She smiled against him, feeling her eyes get hot and blinky. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever had.”

He pulled back to look at her for the first time, his expression a tangle of exhausted and astonished. One of his hands rose to stroke her cheek. She blushed and leaned into that touch.

“I mean, Betty’s pretty great, and I had an amazing catcher’s mitt when I was ten, but… you’re still the best thing by a long shot.” 

A smile spread slowly across him – the kind she loved, the kind that lit him up like Christmas. She smiled back and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’m impressed I ranked higher than Betty,” he mumbled, and cuddled her close when she chuckled. Then he whispered, “And you _do_ have me now. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She kissed him again, this time deeply, telling him that she wished they could remain as they were just then for the rest of time as well. 

Damn the war, damn the rest of the world. Everything she wanted was in her arms. A strange man from the desert she met accidentally through the mail. A man that the world now wanted to tear away from her. They would just have to find a way to survive it.

They’d have to.

 

\---- 

 

Spencer watched her watch him as light crept under the blackout curtains. Dawn was coming, but inside the flat it was still night, and still _theirs._ Emily traced a finger lazily along his chest as he lay strewn about in the sheets, an arm tucked under his head as he took her in. They hadn’t slept, talking instead, and falling into bouts of quiet staring, as if they had to memorize every hair, every line. 

Eventually, Emily shifted, wrapping the sheet around her as she rolled on top of him, sinking comfortably into the cradle of his hips, and propping her chin on the rise of his chest. He watched her with an amused curl to his mouth, waiting patiently for whatever she was going to do next. Her finger reached out and traced the wound on his shoulder.

“This is Aline’s bullet, isn’t it?” she murmured. 

His smile faded, and he nodded slowly. She nodded as well, her pulse quickening as she imagined him being hit, the grunt of pain, the uncertainty that there wasn’t another bullet coming that would drop him… His hand landed across the small of her back and circled. When she looked at him again, his worry was back. Maybe he felt her racing pulse through her chest. 

“Tell me about the others,” she asked instead.

He shrugged. “A bullet only has one purpose, Emily. The details around my wounds are minutiae. Someone wanted to stop me from doing something, and they didn’t succeed.” He watched her absorb his words, then added, “I can tell you it was terrifying. Every time.”

That didn’t make her feel better, but at least it was honest. Some men wore their wounds as badges. She didn’t know what it meant that Spencer wanted to hide his.

“Then tell me about the scar on your leg. That one looks old.”

Spencer sighed, making her move as his chest expanded under her. He glanced away. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters because I want to know you. Every inch of you.”

“You _do_ know me. Like no one else ever has, Em.”

She dropped her chin pointedly onto his chest and arched a stubborn eyebrow at him. He frowned at her and then sighed again in a long-suffering way.

“It’s… humiliating. I… don’t want you to know how weak I used to be. I’m not like that anymore, so what does it matter? The British Army didn’t care about it. They taught me to shoot and fight and interrogate… I’m a covert agent and everything. That’s who I am. That’s who you know.”

“Spencer,” she said softly, not knowing how pull things from him when he was reticent. It had never happened before. “We are a progression of who we’ve been. No one is static. Even those quack psychoanalysts agree on that.” She laid a palm against his chest over his heart when he wouldn’t look at her. He glanced up and she gave him her most earnest look. “I want to know who you were. I want to know what I’ve missed. No one’s perfect, Spence, least of all me. I won’t be casting any stones, not after I rushed to judgment about you in the beginning. And look at how wrong I was about that? Just… trust me. That’s what I’m asking of you.”

She watched his eyes go wide, and then he nervously swallowed. He wiggled beneath her as if she was making him uncomfortable, and she was about to move when he went still, sighed deeply, and cleared his throat.

“All right,” he mumbled, but didn’t look happy about it. “You know I was a smart kid. I was in high school by the time I was ten.”

She nodded, though his exact age came as a mild shock.

“There was this girl at school I liked. She was fourteen. I didn’t think the age difference was so much considering how bright I was, but she never noticed me. I was clearly naïve about this, but at the time I was hopelessly smitten and thought she would be too if we ever got to know one another.”

Emily’s stomach tightened because she had an inkling where this was going. She was a teenaged girl once, after all.

“One day, out of the blue, she walked up to me in the hallway and asked if I’d like to go to the movies with her. I was so delighted and shocked that she finally noticed me, I didn’t think about the _why_ behind it at all. I quickly agreed, and we arranged to meet at the school athletics field after school.”

Spencer stopped and then looked at Emily. Really _looked_ at her. Then he continued.

“I went to the field and she was there all right, but so was the entire varsity football team. They were waiting for me.”

Emily curled herself closer to him. “What did they do?” Because it was going to be something horrible.

He sighed deeply before continuing. “They held me down, stripped me, and then tied me to the field post for the night. Some of them brought some tomatoes and used me for target practice for good measure. You can’t make kids eat tomatoes, but they always know where to find some when they want to throw them at something.”

His voice trailed off and Emily just stared. The cruelty was more than she guessed. He’d only been ten – how could a ten-year-old possible deserve that? But something was still unclear.

“So, how did your leg get injured?”

He looked at her, suddenly much older than he was. “It gets cold in the desert at night. Sometimes almost below freezing.”

“Oh no,” she whispered.

“I knew I had to get free, or risk hypothermia. It still took me hours to loosen the ropes, and by the time I managed it, my hands and feet were numb. I didn’t realize that I’d torn some ligaments in my leg in the process. And it was a four mile walk home. When I got there, I couldn’t put any weight on it at all.”

“Spence…”

“In the end, I needed two surgeries to repair the damage, and I spent a year rehabilitating the muscles. I walked with a cane until college.”

“I’m sorry, Spencer,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the center of his chest and kissing him for all the times he’d been pushed away. “I’m so sorry.”

“You didn’t do it,” he said quietly. “Just… please don’t think less of me.”

Her head snapped up and she stared at him through a blurry gaze. “Why would that story make me think less of you?”

He shrugged awkwardly, like a boy trying to avoid trouble. “I was dumb. And gullible. And I let a bunch of people take advantage of my weakness. I couldn’t protect myself and… and I just wasn’t _good enough_.” His eyes flicked to hers and then away again. “That boy would have never been good enough for a gal like you.”

“Spencer,” she said a little incredulously, and then softened her tone. He’d seen this as a huge risk to reveal to her. She needed to be the friend he knew he had in her, not some fiery, loudmouthed dame. She swallowed back the hurt she felt – because it _hurt_ that he thought she wouldn’t understand this – and slid up his chest so he couldn’t look away from her.

“A boy who withstood bullies and humiliation, who _saved himself_ when no one else would, who walked home naked and limping in the dark – that sort of boy would absolutely be good enough for this girl.” She stretched closer and gave him a no-nonsense stare. “But a boy who hadn’t done any of that, and still grew up to be generous, smart, quiet and kind would also be good enough. A shy boy, who mistakenly thinks he’s weak, who befriended a difficult girl in her grief, who lifted her gaze higher than she was willing to look, who believed she could do anything when everyone else told her ‘no’… that boy is perhaps too good for anyone to deserve. Which is why this girl is so glad that who you end up with doesn’t have anything to do with what a lunkhead deserves. If it did, I’d never deserve you, Spencer.”

“Emily, c’mon…” he sputtered, cheeks going red.

“I’m serious.” She braced her hands on the mattress and loomed over him. “I thought you were a flunky and a coward when you wrote to me about Evan. I just decided that without any proof other than my heartbreak. And I was 100% dead wrong, Spencer. Evan died stupidly, but that wasn’t your fault. And so many boys have died stupid deaths in this war – it’s not even unusual. That says far more about war than it does about you.” She lowered herself so her mouth was just above his, brushing his lips with her words. “I’m so sorry I ever thought that way about you, or made you believe it was true, Spencer. I hope you can forgive me because I can’t imagine a happy life for myself without you in it somehow.”

He stared up at her, blinking and shocked. Then he leaned up fractionally and gave her a soft kiss. “No forgiveness is necessary,” he breathed when they parted.

“I think it is,” she whispered back, her gut tightening as their deadline flicked into her mind quickly before she could push it aside. “You’ve given me a lot, Spencer. Much more than I could’ve ever imagined back when Evan died. All I can give back is this. Just four days.”

“No, Emily, no,” he husked urgently and cupped her face in his hands as he brought her back to his mouth. “Tell me that isn’t why you’re doing this… as some sort of recompense…”

“I’m not, Spence. I’m here because I want to be. Believe me. But you’ve done so much more than just be a friend to me. You’ve stood by me, you’ve encouraged my self-determination, you’ve forced me to think more deeply about the world… you’ve even saved my life, for goodness sake…”

“And you have saved mine,” he said sharply, his brows furrowed. She pulled back in his grip a little, confused by the heat of his response, and he softened his gaze and circled his fingers into her hair. “You’ll never know how much receiving those letters meant, Em. When I was scared, or confused, or just too damned exhausted to find hope in what I was doing any longer…”

His voice trailed off, eyes meeting hers and then flicking away nervously, as if this, too, was something he was reticent to give her. She thought about him overseas, hiding, hungry, mistrustful of everyone, with no end on his horizon, and her stomach twisted again.

“Your words were like a fire in my head. They gave me back my focus, my direction. They provided perspective and inspiration. They were a vivid reminder of what life could be,” he murmured, and then finally looked at her again. “I fell for you through your words.”

And just like that, her heart felt swollen and too big for the space behind her ribs. Whether stated or implied, everyone told Emily that her primary asset in life was her attractiveness. And then Spencer came along and told her what drew him in was everything about her that you _couldn’t_ see. When had he snuck in and found a way to disarm her so effectively?

She kissed him deeply then, intensely, and felt something crack open in her – for him – that she’d never let another fella have.

“All I can give back is this,” she breathed. “All of me. And in just four brief days. It’s not enough, Spencer. It’ll always hurt that it isn’t enough.”

He stared at her for a long moment in what appeared to be fundamental astonishment. But then he quickly rolled them in the tossed sheets until his weight sank into her and she realized that it wasn’t incredulity at all, but something far more ardent. She felt his breath quicken against her mouth when he took it, his body vivify against hers as he held her unmercifully close. 

“Time doesn’t matter,” he bit into her lips. “Only this does. Only us. I _won’t_ give you up because of time…”

She wanted to argue, knowing that his heart was overriding his sense, and that wasn’t doing either of them any favors, but he kissed her with a possessive intensity that wiped her mind blank as they clutched, and rolled, and whimpered together. He skimmed her with his fingers, then his mouth, and when he finally had her rising to meet him eagerly, he slid into her and made love with mind-defying slowness. Words poured out of him, soft and broken as he breathed them over their movements and the gentle cinch of the linens around them. By the time they were done, their cheeks were wet, and Emily had never felt such a strange heartache in her life. 

And that’s when she realized she was in mortal danger from him.

\---- 

They spent a lazy day lurking around the flat pretending that the outside world didn’t matter. Spencer went through his pal’s closets and came away with the ugliest, oversized cardigan known to man, and a silk kimono that made his eyes light up when he suggested Emily try it on.

“I’m not wearing some floozy’s castoffs,” she murmured from the bed, trying to pin up her hair. When that was met with silence, she looked up and saw his disappointment, along with the silk drooping in his hand.

Then he upped the ante. “Well, if you won’t wear it, I will.”

“What?”

“It’s pretty,” he shrugged, and made a show of ducking out of the horrible sweater for his costume change. “Maybe it’ll make me pretty as well.”

“Spencer,” Emily shot from the bed, naked as a baby, and grabbed the kimono. “You’re plenty pretty, lunkhead. Besides, it won’t fit you…”

She looked at the garment, all indigos and deep purples with splashes of red herons and water lilies. It was actually quite attractive, and the silk was almost lighter than air in her hands.

“It would look much better on you,” Spencer murmured, and when Emily glanced at him, he was smirking as if he’d won.

“Fine, I’ll wear it. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.”

“Just… find something other than that old man sweater to wear, would you?”

He looked down at himself in the nappy cardy and thought hard for a moment. Then he turned away from her and headed for the living room. “Nah,” he said over his shoulder, and she sighed as she followed him, realizing that he’d played her like a virtuoso.

Spencer had the forethought to stock the kitchen with some foodstuffs, but they quickly discovered that neither of them was adept at cooking. Spencer, surprisingly, had a slight edge over Emily since he’d learned to cook over fires when his team was sleeping rough overseas. But he couldn’t seem to grasp the gas cooker.

“Too bad there’s only an electric fire and not a real hearth,” he said as he served up eggy in a basket to Emily with a wary eye. “I once cooked a whole chicken over an open fire. It was so good, we all felt drunk afterwards.”

“Maybe you were just starving,” she smirked at him from her spot on the carpet next to the electric fireplace.

“Oh, we were,” he nodded, and took his seat across from her with his own plate in hand. “But we also didn’t die of food poisoning. So, who’s the gastronomical genius in this story?”

“You are,” she chuckled, chewing her breakfast-for-lunch with enjoyment. “My apologies, Lieutenant.”

“See it never happens again,” he said with mock sternness before stuffing his face with eggy toast and forcing her to crawl over and wipe the mess away with a finger. “Thank you,” he mumbled and then nipped her finger quickly.

“It’s the least I could do for a guy who made a carpet picnic in December,” she smiled, and then went hot all over when he leaned in suddenly and gave her a deep kiss. “What was that for?” she breathed when they parted.

“Nothing,” he blushed. “You just… you make little things memorable. That’s all.”

The day before caught up to them, and with the grey weather beyond the windows, they found themselves curled together on the settee, Emily thread through and around Spencer, blinking sleepily as Spencer read a book of German poetry aloud.

“Sorta subversive, isn’t it? To keep German books lying around in plain sight,” Emily yawned. “I don’t get the hullabaloo about Rilke anyway. It seems like his underlying view of love is rooted in fundamental loneliness…”

“You know it’s Rilke. Of course, you do…” Spencer sighed warmly above her. “The Bavarian tradition is to skew things darkly, there’s no doubt about it. But… you don’t think he has a point? About the connection between two solitudes?”

“Well, sure, but… the implication is that without that penetrating connection, life is only pointless mediocrity as we trudge listlessly through the mortal world to our deaths. And it’s not like that at all, is it?” She twisted to look up his chest at him. “So many people never find that sort of all-consuming passion, and they still go on. They have friends, and sometimes families. They do meaningful things outside of the confines of love. It’s like you said: we’re here to be _useful_. To be useful in love is wonderful, but there are other ways to give life meaning. If there weren’t, how would all of those nuns and priests find their way out of bed each morning? Not to mention the unwanted, the forgotten…”

Spencer stared at her, the book dangling in his hand. She propped herself up with a sinking feeling that she’d disappointed him for the first time.

“You disagree?”

“I think that you’ve never felt truly alone before, that’s all,” he responded gently, and she felt her face flame. She _had_ fallen short, and it left her breathless with sudden hurt. “And you might be construing his notion of ‘love’ too narrowly,” Spencer continued. “Much of his focus is romantic love, yes, but I think he contrasts the bleakness of life against a more general idea of love. The kind that includes platonic love, familial love, religious love… Without love of any kind, we are nothing.”

Emily ducked back down to his chest, hiding her expression from him. There was a long moment of silence in the flat, then a neat thud of a book closing and his hand on her shoulder rubbing light, warm circles through the kimono.

“I’ve upset you.”

“No,” she mumbled, thinking that perhaps this was just a hint of the space separating them. It wasn’t just age and experience – which she’d convinced herself was nothing – but it was also intellect and feeling. He was just _deeper_ than she was. Eventually he’d tire of her limited understanding, her measured feelings, wouldn’t he? “I just don’t like Rilke.”

“Fair enough.” He waited another long moment as the traffic outside the flat whooshed and the radiator in the hearth made soft ticking noises. “We don’t have to worry about that anyhow,” he said eventually. “We’ve already given our individual lives meaning, both from within and without the confines of love. For my own part, I have none of the regret Rilke wrote about.”

 _Not yet,_ she thought with a cold, sinking feeling, but she kept it to herself.

 

They napped the afternoon away, more like two cats curled before a fire than two people. She woke first with a start of disorientation, glancing around and embarrassed by the puddle of drool she’d left on the disastrous cardigan. Then she looked at him, face lax in sleep, concerns smoothed away, and with a mess of curls developing into a riot on the top of his head. In that moment he seemed painfully young, imminently breakable. It wasn’t the face of a man who’d been shot three times, or trained new recruits to be spies, or saved her from being bombed into a crater in central London. 

But he was very obviously all of these things. And she realized in an instant how rare that combination of elements was, how completely unique he was in her experience of men, and how wholly she loved all of the disparate pieces. If he did not return, the loss would haunt her for the rest of her life. What were the chances that there was another like him out there in the world? Rilke’s solitude and isolation came back and laid her low in that moment. This connection was too important. Without it, life really would seem pointless. Stupid Kraut poet – she was afraid of his truth.

Spencer stirred, sucking in a huge breath and blinking at her in soft confusion. “Was I snoring?”

“Yes. And farting.”

“Oh dear. How did you manage?”

She shrugged. “You’re a slim fox. I’ve put up with worse.”

“Really,” he arched an eyebrow and smirked. “Well, may I make amends by fixing us some dinner?”

“More eggs and toast?”

“I was thinking… _pancakes_ ,” he said with childlike relish. She laughed, banishing all deeper thoughts in favor of his effervescence and smile.

“How fitting, since we’re already dressed for bed.”

He made a low noise in the back of his throat as he glanced over the curves of her swathed in Japanese silk. “That’ll be handy later,” he murmured, and then rose from the settee before she could get an insinuation of her own out.

They made another carpet picnic, huddled close to the electric fire as night descended.

“All this expensive grandeur, and we’ve spent our day within three feet of this radiator,” Emily gestured to the great space around them before licking jam from her fingers. Spencer seemed hypnotized by her lips for a second before shaking it off.

“That’s the irony of British architecture,” he mumbled over a mouthful of pancakes. “All those castles, feudal manor estates, palaces… they are all impossible to heat. And this country is so _damp_.”

“True,” Emily smiled. “But they’ve mastered the art of a cozy pub, haven’t they?”

“Ah, well, that’s because they are for commoners. Folks who live cheek by jowl precisely because they don’t wish to die of pneumonia,” Spencer raised a long finger, and suddenly Emily could picture him teaching a classroom of eager students. “The aristocracy would never stand to be _touched_ by others without an extensive investigation into their lineage and holdings beforehand.”

Emily giggled, and it made Spencer smile. “Space means money, even if it’s drafty and cold.”

“Well, I don’t mind the odd body pressed close.” She looked at him on the sly, from under her lashes, and saw the moment when he perked up. “I guess that makes me common.”

“There’s nothing common about you,” he said softly.

They finished their meal quietly, with music lilting from the wireless. Spencer collected the dinner remnants and when he returned from the kitchen, he stopped dead in his tracks with a strange look on his face.

“What is it?” Emily asked.

“That song,” he pointed to the wireless. “That’s the one they played at the dance hall that night.”

“Oh. Yes, it is.”

He smiled and walked over to her, offering his hand as she crouched on the carpet. “Would you like to dance, miss?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She stood and they both pulled close. This time Spencer didn’t twitch or go rigid against her, and his arms looped around her with a knowing familiarity. And, of course, they were much closer than they had been that night; Spencer’s hands skimmed everywhere, and he pressed against her hips readily for direction. He touched her hair, her cheek, her throat as they swayed together, his smile never leaving him or changing to worry. They circled the carpet before the hearth, making gentle scuffs with their bare feet as they moved, and Emily couldn’t look away from the easy delight painted all over him from the lamps in the room. The song ended and another began, but they kept dancing like it didn’t matter what was playing. Her hand drifted up to his cheek and cupped it, more content than she could express at this happy, silly moment.

“Okay?” she whispered, as they headed into their third song.

“Yeah,” he murmured, stroking a line up her spine with his finger that made her shiver. “Dancing’s not so bad. You just need the right partner.”

\---- 

 

Since they hadn’t left the flat in almost three days, Emily insisted on an evening out _somewhere_. Spencer’s departure date was a blinking sign in their not-so-distant future, and part of her felt that she had to make an attempt to reconnect with the world again, and the war. Surely it would hurt less when he went if she already had a foot firmly rooted in reality ahead of time. For three days she’d forgotten all about air raids, and ration cards, and Millie, and Betty, and Milgrew. She’d been selfish and unguarded, things which were frowned upon in general at the moment, and she had to find her way back to sense and stoicism before folks began to notice the change in her. 

But passion and pride wouldn’t let go of her so easily.

Since it was close to Christmas, entertainment was scarce, and Spencer couldn’t afford another lavish dinner, so that’s how they found themselves in a smoky pub with a bunch of drunken American servicemen trying not to hit the locals with wayward darts and eating grey little meat pies. Emily had one too many pints and was teaching the Yankee grunts traditional English Christmas carols at the top of her lungs while Spencer grinned and weaved unsteadily from a corner booth. It had begun with her belting out various college fight songs, then wove into carols, and finally devolved into bawdy drinking tunes that probably made her a highlight of the Americans’ trip overseas. She stumbled back to Spencer when the corporals took up the cheer without her, grinning at him like she’d just robbed a bank as she fell into the booth next to him.

“You all right?” he chuckled as she elbowed him.

“Of course. I am capital!” she yelled, to rousing cheers from across the pub, before she took a liberal swig of Spencer’s stout. Then she kissed him soundly, humming contently against his smile and tasting the remnants of pie crust on his lips. “Hi,” she laughed when they came up for air, skimming fingers through his hair and making a show of canoodling.

“Hello,” he chuckled, and then his eyes widened when she rose up and crawled across him, so his hands had to hold her as she draped herself in his lap without warning. “Had enough?”

“Not nearly,” she sighed and nuzzled into his throat, arms loosely curled around his neck. “But I think I’m done singing for the evening.”

“Hmmmm,” he rumbled against her, tucking her legs over his under the table and stroking them lightly. “Your rendition of _Break Forth_ was especially strident. I think I could actually hear the entire Church of England clutch its collective pearls as you sang it.”

“The only difference between church hymns and marching songs is _tone_ ,” she said with great authority, which only made him chuckle more. Then she silenced him with a soft kiss to the base of his throat. “You should’ve sung with us too. I bet you know all of them.”

“I dance better than I sing. And you’ve seen me dance.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but he trembled a little against her. “And my rank and experience notwithstanding, you are far braver than I am in scenes like this.”

She looked up and shot him an arched eyebrow. “You’re an officer, and an American. They wouldn’t have had a problem with you.”

He shot her an eyebrow back. “I’m an officer, and an American, and a skinny Poindexter who has _you._ Any man would have a problem with me, even if it’s only a twinge of envy.”

“Ridiculous!” she sputtered, a moment before she took him with a blistering kiss that prompted whistles and jeering from the bar, along with a loud, “Oi! None of that now, chums! Drink yer pints…”.

Spencer’s hands left her legs and curled around her back as the kiss lengthened. Emily felt him tense beneath her for a moment – embarrassed at being on display – but he relaxed as he lost himself in it. It turned wet and searching in the dimness of their booth, and they both grew more brazen as it stopped being a silent dare to each other and became something more intimate. He pulled away first, cheeks ruddy, eyes soft with his mouth open as if he was about to dive back in.

Emily blinked, feeling hot all over from both him and the close, boozy pub air. “You showed them,” she breathed. “Nothing flat-footed about that buss. A fella has to respect another fella who treats a girl like that…”

“Emily, I…” Spencer searched her eyes, suddenly worried and a lot soberer than he was before. She held her breath, waiting for the three words that would alter them completely. She didn’t know if she wanted to hear them or not. He was leaving tomorrow. Maybe it wasn’t worth the pain they’d cause…

He swallowed visibly and cuddled her closer in his lap. Then he dipped in for another kiss – gentle and lingering this time – and propped his forehead against hers, staring with a wide-eyed interest that caught her off guard. But it was better than worry.

“Is this…” he whispered, then licked his lips and tried again. “Is it always like this?”

That shut her right down, because it not only wasn’t what she was expecting, but she also didn’t have an answer for him. She thought it over for a long moment, fingers stroking absently in the short hair along the back of his neck.

“I dunno,” she shrugged as she looked back at him. “I don’t think so. At least, it’s never been this way for me before.”

That was all she had, because this _did_ feel different and strange, but not in an easy way to pin down. She couldn’t decide if it was the sex, or something beyond that. She’d been gone on fellas before, with various degrees of intensity and, invariably, sobering disappointment, but nothing had ever _quite_ felt like this. And what was more disconcerting was she couldn’t decide if this intensity would last once Spencer left. What if it all petered out into normality a few months down the road? Would she want that – for the worry and dread to lighten into nothingness? Or would it feel as if they’d betrayed each other, and she’d never be able to trust her feelings about this again? She sighed and shook her forehead against his, but when she checked him for a reaction, his expression was one of unqualified joy.

“What is it?” she mumbled, confused by him.

“You really thought about it,” he whispered, a smile slowly spreading across him.

“Of course I did.” Why wouldn’t she? Sometimes his belief that he was so much less than her really stuck in her craw. Couldn’t he see how imperfect she was?

He just smiled. “Your uncertainty is better than any definitive answer you could’ve given me.”

“You’re a _very_ odd duck,” she mumbled.

“And you’re something else, Emily Prentiss,” he kissed the corner of her mouth and then held her close as he whispered against it. “If I may be so bold, I’d like to take you back to the flat. There’s a tremendous wave of amorousness bearing down on me just now…”

“Lieutenant!” she mock-gasped. “What a statement!”

“It was as decorous as I could manage after four pints.” He moved and nuzzled against her ear, making her go still as he barely breathed the rest. “Better that than to say how watching you with those boys made me want to f– ” His voice hiccupped over the word he couldn’t find a way to say. She squirmed in his lap with a sudden rush of heat, pressing her ear closer to him. “Want to take you somewhere, be with you, to hear the sounds you make when I’m… inside. Because that’s only for me.”

He pulled back and gave her a warm, liquid look that swallowed her and her intention to get grounded in reality. “Tonight’s my last night, and I don’t plan on sleeping.”

“Jesus Roosevelt Christ…” she whispered as her cheeks flamed.

“No. Spencer William Reid,” he smirked back. “Do I have your leave, Captain Prentiss?”

“Captain, huh?” she said breathlessly. “I outrank you?”

“Captain of your own destiny. Absolutely,” he beamed. “And of course, you outrank me. It’s far more fun that way.”

She fumbled out of the booth as quickly as her drunken legs would transport her, and then she dragged him after her and out into the snowy street as the American grunts hooted encouragement. Then they stumbled through the darkened streets, occasionally collapsing against a shop doorway or a lane wall for a grasping kiss until they made it back to the dignified apartment block and the disapproving glare of the stuffy doorman.

Spencer had grown much bolder in three days, not caring a whit as he chased her through the lobby and pinned her in the elevator to lavish her throat in the sedate rise to their floor. And he made good on his promise, being both adventurous and attentive with her until the weak dawn light began to glow behind the blackout curtains. But eventually his body gave out, sinking into a deep sleep at her side, leaving her sated and sore, and newly frightened of the future now that the beer had worn off.

She rose from the bed, cracked one of the curtains, and watched him sleep. He was tangled in the sheets, a long arm hanging down over the edge of the mattress, that look of sleeping innocence once again making him impossibly young. Emily stole one of his cigarettes from the monogrammed silver case he carried, and ignored how the smoke revealed that she was shaking.

It was over.

She sucked in wet breath after wet breath as the cigarette burned down, sprinkling ash like snowflakes over her toes.

He had to go. There was no stopping it. But what had they achieved in four days? She might never see him again, and what would she recall when she thought back on this time? Just a romp, a doomed affair? Would it have meant half so much if he _weren’t_ leaving?

Suddenly, she couldn’t stand there and watch him anymore. She had to leave; things to do. She hurriedly scrawled a note and left it on the bedside table, then she slid from the flat as quietly as a thief, feeling like one with a cowardly, black heart.

\---- 

She had taken too long and nearly missed his bus. A snarky part of her suggested silently in her mind that she did it on purpose – to break them somehow before he left. Their time together was almost perfect – better to leave it that way, as a snapshot in time, than to get all sloppy and real and ruin it. That same part of her declared what she didn’t want to acknowledge, and it did it loudly: he probably wouldn’t make it back. And it was that thought that almost made her stay away. _Coward._

Anger flared in her violently as she pushed through the crowd, trying to shake the thoughts away. She welcomed the heat of it, so much better than the icy fear that the coming moments were their last ones. She found him by the bus doors as the other men were boarding; he was craning himself to find her in the crowd, eyes bright and creased with worry. She pushed through and grabbed his hand, holding the long box in her free one.

“There you are,” he gusted, worry collapsing quickly into sadness. “We’re leaving in five minutes. I thought you wouldn’t make it-”

“I know, I know… I’m sorry. It was harder getting there and back than I thought.” She said it too harshly – as if it were his fault – and her stomach soured when she saw the hurt in his expression. “Don’t mind me,” she hushed, and tried to sound as soft as she didn’t want to feel. “I’m just… scared…”

“Emily…”

“No, don’t comfort me. I’ll lose it if you do that,” she gulped, her vision already blurring as she stared viciously at the buttons of his overcoat. “Just… here. This is why I almost missed your bus.”

She held out the box and watched his gloved hands trace its edges and then open it. Nestled inside was a soft wool scarf in a very un-regulation-purple. He lifted it from the box quickly and she followed it as he held it, so she could see his reaction. His eyes were huge behind his glasses, blinking a little too much. The crowd was thinning out, men climbing aboard the bus and girls stepping back to cry quietly and wave. There wasn’t any time left. Emily reached for the scarf and looped it quickly around Spencer’s neck, tucking it into the folds of his overcoat before he could say anything. She focused on her hands when her vision blurred again and refused to clear. She felt him turn to face her directly, but she couldn’t make herself look at him.

“You can wear it under your army one. No one will know…” she whispered.

“I love you,” he murmured wetly, and she had to lock herself in place not to react. She just kept fussing with the scarf instead.

“You need to stay warm…”

“Emily.” He waited for her to meet his eyes, and she finally did. He was barely holding himself together, eyes blinking so fast that he was probably having trouble seeing. His throat bobbed over and over, but when he finally made his voice work, it was low and sure, like it was the only true thing he knew. “I love you.”

The edges of his face blurred, and she willed herself to be angry, fierce, anything but sad and terrified and soon to be utterly alone in the world. Her throat closed up and robbed her of her voice, but she breathed, “I love you too” and saw that he heard it when he smiled and sniffled with relief. She tried to smile back, and it hurt more than she could have imagined, then she laid a hand along his chest just below the tuck of his new scarf.

“Make it matter,” she whispered. _Come back and make it matter…_

He shuffled closer and she felt his lips brush her forehead. She clutched his coat as her breath stuttered free of her chest, and she wasn’t sure if she could let him go when the time came.

“You are with me wherever I go, Emily.” His mouth skimmed down to her cheek, leaving the softest kiss imaginable. “But I’m coming back, because four days wasn’t enough.”

She made a tiny, traitorous noise against his chest just as the driver cleared his throat at the front of the bus.

“Right then. C’mon, sir!”

And somehow, she pulled it together in an instant. Taking a deep breath, patting his chest soundly, and then pushing him towards the doors with a firm nod.

“Off you go,” she choked, as he staggered back and looked gutted. 

But she nodded again, and he righted himself, climbing onto the bus with a stony expression. She walked with him, following him down the line of the bus – him inside and her outside – until he found a seat at the back. He was looking down at his feet, half his face hidden by his cap. Then the bus engine burst to life with a rumble and a plume of exhaust, and when that cleared, he was staring at her through the back window. He looked so young, eyes wide, mouth open as if to speak but the words lost in his sudden grief. Her heart thrashed around in her chest as she thought there was no way that the world wouldn’t crush that strange beauty.

“Stay,” she mouthed, and the sound that accompanied it was terrible. “Stay with me, somehow, no matter what.”

The bus lurched forward, and the cry went up from other sweethearts and wives. Everyone waved. She just watched as he drove away, with his hand pressed flat against the window and her scarf curled around his neck.

\---- 

[written on a single sheet of torn paper]

I left you two hours ago, and this will be in the mail before I set foot in France.

I love you, and I’m coming back because my purpose is to live a long life by your side.

Keep going, Emily. I’ll catch up.

Forever,  
S.


	4. The End of the Affair

January 1, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I tried to ring in the New Year with the girls from the boarding house, but someone put on “I’ll Be Seeing You” and I had to make my escape before I became a sniffly, pathetic mess. I went and got tipsy with Millie instead. At least she understands why a dame might cry at that song. By the way, she says I owe her money – because we fell in love – although I don’t ever remember betting on that outcome.

God, I miss you. Please be safe. I’m trying to be the broad you’ve always imagined I was, but none of that really works with you gone.

Where are you now, I wonder? I know you can’t tell me. I know that you probably won’t be able to write regularly either. But I can’t help it – I think about it constantly. I guess I’ll just keep writing into the void and hope it finds you eventually. It angers and scares me that our whole relationship has been held together by the tenuous thread of the Royal Mail.

I probably should’ve waited until I was sober to write this.

I love you. Robustly. Shamelessly. Dramatically. Madly. With an utter lack of feminine decorousness. What have you done to me, Spencer?

E. xoxo

\---- 

January 7, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

Just a few words now, during my break. Because if I don’t, I’ll go nuts.

There was a terrible storm the other day and we’ve been socked in ever since. I can’t get Betty out in it, and no one is willing to travel anywhere unless ordered to do so. I’m worried about Millie, but her place is too far to walk to. My consolation is that this is her country – she grew up on these lands. She’s probably seen worse winters and knows how to survive them. Still, I’ll feel better when I’ve seen her face and her little mites tearing around.

I have plenty of work at the base, even with all the snow, but I’m distracted. The light’s too rare and grey, the company too sparse, and the outlook too gloomy. I’m all at sixes and sevens. I know what you’d say: “find yourself a project, Emily – be USEFUL”. Easier said than done when you can’t go more than a half-mile in any direction. I guess I could read that flight manual you not-so-subtly left the last time you were here. I don’t know what got into you – I’ll never convince anyone to take me up for the training hours I’d need to get a license. And have I learned nothing from Evan’s history? The Prentiss family was probably never meant to fly.

I hope you’re okay. It’s my first thought each day, and my last one at night. At the very least, I hope you and your team are somehow staying fed and warm. Don’t give your rations away, all right? Not when you can’t come back to replenish them. Be sensible, Lunkhead.

I think I’d give almost anything to see your smile right now.

Love,  
E.

\---- 

January 13, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I finally got around to Millie’s last week, and she and the mites are fine, as I predicted. They have cabin fever, but they are fine. Millie was in a bit of a mood (understandably, when you’ve been trapped in a farmer’s cottage for nearly a week with two juvenile demons with limited conversation skills), and she has declared that my moping is foolish. I wasn’t aware that I was moping, but she says my face is longer than a Leicester ram’s and it has to stop. She pointed out that feeling sorry for myself won’t make you any safer or bring you home faster, and it’s hard to argue with someone who will never see the one she loves return to her and who carries on anyway. So… I guess no more sheep-face for me. There’s plenty of work to be done anyway, both at the base and around Millie’s place. This winter seems to break everything it touches. I’m working until I exhaust myself each day – it doesn’t leave much time for thinking. Perhaps that’s for the best.

Did I ever tell you how I got interested in fixing things? I think I told you I used to fix my father’s car when it broke down, but it didn’t start then. I was a rambunctious child, always getting into things and driving Mother mad with dirt and soot and ruined outfits. We were very well-off before the ‛29 crash (slightly less well-off afterwards, but never close to destitute), and that meant we had servants. Gardeners, maids, liverymen… I used to follow them around and watch them work, hoping for an adventure or a new playmate. There was a man who looked after my Father’s car – Anderson – he also meddled with some of the grounds equipment. He didn’t care for my Mother’s fussiness and found it amusing to get me dirty and send me back to the house. There was an old tractor in the garage that he fiddled with – it never worked and I don’t think Anderson had a clue what was wrong with it, but he persisted. It was half-pulled apart, and I used to play with the cylinder rings, the piston shafts – stacking them into strange metal castles and then smashing them. I even once made a trebuchet with gears and an old timing belt.

Dad found this amusing, but Mother did not. Soon, I wasn’t allowed to visit Anderson in the garage anymore. This made me angry and, as only an angry child can, I exercised my frustration by disassembling whatever mechanical device I could get my hands on within the house. Clocks, the telephone in the front hall, and once, gloriously, the electric clothes wringer. That one sent Mother into a fit of pique that has never been duplicated (though she never washed her own clothes, so I’m not sure why she took it so personally). 

My punishments were usually light, because Dad was soft on me. Mother berated him for his indulgence, but he would say, “she’s just curious, Liz, nothing wrong with that”. One day I pushed him too far though when I took apart his beloved wireless. I was sent to my room without dinner that night and I stayed up listening to my parents fight about my wild unsuitability. The following morning, Dad brought me to his study and told me that it was fine to take things apart, but only if I could put them back together again. Which I couldn’t – I only knew how to break things, not make them better. How could I when there was no one to teach me? I was so upset that I had finally disappointed him, I cried until I was red-faced and breathless while he watched me.

A few days later, still in a funk from my dressing down, Dad took me to a neighbor’s farm. He made me wait in the car while he spoke to the grim farmer, and after a while, he told me to get out of the car, that he’d be back to pick me up for supper, and to behave myself. Then he drove away without further explanation. As you can imagine, I thought he’d given me away for breaking his wireless. 

The farmer was a gruff man named David who barely spoke and smiled even less. He left me in the drive, shuffling off to his barn without a word. I had no choice but to follow. When I got there, I saw every mechanical device I could imagine, including a huge tractor. All clean and in their allotted place. It was so perfect, so beautiful to me – the tools laid out just so, spare parts organized and ready to fit, the heavy crank lift disappearing up into the darkness of the barn rafters, the smell of oil and freshly-swept sawdust everywhere… He only said, “Your father says you bust things. Far better to fix them.” And from that day on, I went to David’s farm and worked on whatever he put in front of me. I learned by watching him, and then by doing. If I got it wrong, he’d shake his head and tell me to do it again until I got it right. He wasn’t much of a teacher, but it was enough for me, I suppose. I learned from him until he lost the farm in ‛30. I was heartbroken when he moved back with family in New Jersey, but he told me that a thirteen-year-old girl needed better friends than a broke, bachelor farmer. After that, Dad let me work on his car and stuff around the house, and Mother couldn’t say a word about it because I wasn’t breaking things anymore. And when Dad died in ‛37 and the household was drastically reduced, Mother found the skills useful, even if she never admitted as much to me.

I think about David and Dad a lot. I could’ve been told to stop causing trouble and redirected to other things, as Mother wanted. But Dad made a choice, and then David reinforced it, until it became something I wanted, something that defined me. But was it ever my will? I don’t know. Then I think about you and your remarkable mind. Was it ever your will _not_ to use those gifts? First, in academia, and then for the army. Perhaps we stumble upon our paths through the gentle pressures of what others want around us. Even the war, though its pressure is not gentle. We are shaped by things outside of ourselves and our control as much as by our drives and desires. Millie is a farmer, a single mother, and a survivor. You are a teacher, a spy, and a leader of men. I am a friend and a fixer of things. But what is next for me? Both Millie and you are right in your own ways: I must do for myself, and I must be useful.

But why does it feel so scary this time, and so lonely? Was I always headed for this, or am I the Captain you keep telling me I am? Jesus, I wish I knew, Spence, I really do.

Love,  
E. xoxo

\---- 

January 22, 1944  
Mildenhall

Okay, prepare yourself: I took my first flying lesson today. And everyone survived.

It was also exhilarating. 

This is certainly something to occupy me. You called it. I expect to hear your crowing from across the channel at any moment.

E. xoxo

\---- 

February 10, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I’m exhausted. A full overhaul of the whole squadron for inspection this week, and then Millie’s son came down with pneumonia, so I was over there sitting with him while she got some much-needed shut-eye. He was rough for a few days there – I was quite worried – but he seems through the worst of it now, and thankfully hasn’t given it to his sister. And the weather’s been a beast. Spring can’t come soon enough.

My lessons are progressing slowly. Captain Henley says I have good instincts and a ‘weather eye’, whatever that means. We can only go up when the sky is clear, and the Captain doesn’t have a mission to run. I’m also trying to keep this away from Milgrew, as I don’t believe he’ll look on it kindly. He’ll probably think I’m getting too big for my britches again. Henley seems like a good sort, but I’m keeping my eye on him regardless. He’s young and was a little too eager to help me when I floated the idea to him. I don’t need any crossed wires here, or to develop a reputation of some sort.

There’s talk of a movie house opening in the next town over. I’m quietly excited for something new to see. I haven’t been to London since you left, and entertainment of any kind is a rare species around here. I’m hoping for a gangster flick, or maybe a musical. Anything, really. But we’ll wait to see if the town goes through with it or not.

I wasn’t sure I’d tell you this, but… I dreamt of you last night. I awoke in the dark, suddenly afraid, and then I felt you behind me. You wrapped your arms around me and snuggled close, and you mumbled something about me thrashing around too much, all sleepy and contented. It felt _so real_ , Spencer. I could feel your weight, your breath against my cheek, your boney knees digging into the backs of my legs… Then I woke up for real, and you weren’t there at all. And I cried. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I did. I know I should be stronger – you haven’t been gone that long and I’ve been valiantly trying to be useful – but for an instant last night I was inexpressibly happy. And then it was over, and I was back to this grey life that I’m trying to fill up with things that will replace the ache I carry around with me all the time now. I guess I haven’t lost my sheep-face despite my best efforts.

Why haven’t you written? Has something happened? It’s so hard to wait and not wonder. Please, Spence, write if you can. I need to see your chicken-scratches… 

Yours,  
E. xoxo

\---- 

February 16, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I just got back from my latest flight lesson and Captain Henley let me take the stick for almost forty minutes! I’ve gotta tell you the feeling of power – of dominion – over humanity is heady. I wonder if Evan felt this way about it. Probably. We were cut from the same cloth, after all. I mentioned to the Captain that it’s an obvious and unsubtle display of mastery over nature – being aloft by sheer force of will and hand-wrought machinery. I may have even suggested that there’s a whiff of unseemly potency in the act, which might be why flyboys are so popular with the ladies. I’ll admit, I said that last part without thinking it through. But he laughed heartily and surprised me by agreeing. He said I’d make a fine flyboy someday, since I already figured out what it was all about. He’s a strange bird, Spence. I don’t know what to make of him sometimes.

Oh, Spencer, if I could only express what it feels like to be above the world and all its tethers… There’s nothing but clouds and the sun above them, and the focus on your environment knowing that if you fail, you will plummet to the ground and you are your own fault. I am only me there – alive by no one’s permission but my own. I am not a Prentiss, or a sister, not a daughter, friend, colleague or lover. It’s loud and terrifying and absolutely VIVID, like being molten glass in a blast furnace. I wish I could show you. It’s different from mechanics; being a fixer is creative, giving. Flying is a purely selfish pleasure – it has no benefit or end result that leaves the world better than you found it. I am still not sure why I’m doing this, but the joy in it is shocking.

Are you okay? I keep asking because it’s all I can do, but the mail is still silent. I am getting on with things, but you’re there in the back of my mind throughout my waking hours. Like a ghost. When the bus took you away that morning, I begged to find a way for you to stay with me. I didn’t know that would manifest itself in a haunting. Please be okay, love. Please. Loving a ghost is unsatisfying.

Yours always,  
E. xoxo

\---- 

February 21, 1944  
Mildenhall

Spencer!

You’ll never guess what’s happened! I was at the movies two nights ago (it’s a sheet along a wall of an old department store – nothing to write home about, but I’ll take my Cary Grant fix where I can find it), and I saw Millie there _with a young army corporal!_ You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I mean, they weren’t acting like sweethearts or anything, but you can be sure I went around to her place the next day and asked her straight-up what the skinny was. She said he was her husband’s best mate from his platoon, and he’d been by a few times to check on her and the kids. She swore up and down that it was nothing, but she was blushing, Spence. I told her that a friend comes by once to check on a widow he doesn’t know – out of respect – but he doesn’t buy toys for the children or take the widow to the movies. She did this to me, so I think turnabout is fair play here, right?

Anyway, it seems like this fella was a green grocer before the war and doesn’t know a lick about farming, so who knows how that will go. But, I gotta tell you, it was nice seeing Millie smile again. Maybe nothing comes of this, but it gives a gal hope to see another’s fortune change for the better. Poor Millie – if anyone deserves a second shot, it’s her. I hope the grocer makes good – takes her away from that vile little village and turns her into a fat shopkeeper’s wife with a bunch of marauding children terrorizing everyone. Wouldn’t that be a great story?

I know, I know. I’m probably being silly. It just feels great to be rash now and again, like I used to be.

E. xoxo

\---- 

March 8, 1944  
Mildenhall

Happy Birthday, love! Twenty-three today… I wish we could celebrate it in person.

I’m not going to lie to you: I’ve had a bit to drink. Henley gave me a nice bottle of merlot to congratulate me on twenty logged hours of flight time so far, so I dipped into it. No need to worry about him after all – it turns out I’m not his type because I’m, well, I’m a dame. There. He’s never mentioned it, but he knows that I know now, and we have an understanding to have one another’s back. He’s says at the rate I’m going, I could take the licensing test by fall, but then what? This all started as a way to keep my mind off of you. What am I going to do with this? Just walk up to Milgrew and say, “Change of plans – teach me to fly B-52s now…” My life is just a crazy, chaotic plan with no sense or direction.

Spencer, where are you? It’s been almost three months without a word. I don’t know what to do, or what to think. Sometimes I imagine the worst – that I’m writing letters to a dead man. Sometimes, I think you just changed your mind, and then I realize _that’s_ the worst. You see, after three months on my own, without any encouragement, I’ve come to the conclusion that this isn’t going to change for me. So, if you’re gone, or just no longer interested, I need to know so I can figure out what to do with the rest of my days. Pining isn’t an option. I don’t think I’m built that way.

I love you, Spence. A part of me left with you that day, and if you never come back, well… you’ll always have that part. I won’t regret anything. I hope you don’t regret anything either.

Aww, damn. Just forget about this mess. Too much wine…

E. xoxo

\---- 

ROYAL POST OFFICE TELEGRAM

Date: March 15, 1944  
Time: 07:27  
Charges: Paid by sender  
Recipient: Ms. E. Prentiss  
23 Waring Cross Lane, Mildenhall, IP28, U.K.

Message:

AM SAFE. MY LETTERS SENT BACK. WILL RESEND WITH FRIEND. LOVE YOU E. ALWAYS.

Sender: Lt. S. Reid

\---- 

From the Office of Lieutenant-Colonel A. Hotchner  
via British Home Office, London  
March 17, 1944

Dear Technical Sergeant Prentiss,

I hope this package finds you well. Lieutenant Reid charged me with its delivery after several of his correspondence packs were inadvertently sent back to him in the field. He stressed that there was some urgency to this delivery, and I personally apologize for the unfortunate delay.

I can reassure you that he is in good health, and though this is, apparently, just some of the correspondence he’s written, it is all that he managed to recover. Perhaps the Royal Mail will find and deliver the reminder in time. For now, I hope this is sufficient. Again, please accept my apologies.

Regards,  
Lt.-Colonel A. Hotchner  
U.S. Army Intelligence, Croughton

 

[from a package of collected, post-marked letters]

January 3, 1944

Dear Em,

It’s been over two weeks, and I can still taste you on my lips, feel you brushing my side, hear you murmuring close to me. Some days I think I’ll go mad trying to push you away so I can focus on my task. Putting more distance between us is anathema to me. 

I saw you asking me to stay that day, saw your lips moving and read the plea easily because it was the same cry inside me. I didn’t have time to tell you… how my whole world changed when you said you loved me too. How could it be that I won you? I’ll never understand that, I guess, but know that it’s made me a different, happier man. I’ll give you everything I can, and more besides, if you let me be yours for good. My friend, my love, the name in my heart that was never spoken until you touched me.

Mom was a sentimental romantic and fond of poetry, so maybe this is all too flowery for you, but it is exactly how I feel. When I think on you now, so far from where we started, I hear Whitman in my head:

_Among the men and women the multitude,_  
I perceive one picking me out by secret and divine signs,  
Acknowledging none else, not parent, wife, husband, brother, child, any nearer than I am,  
Some are baffled, but that one is not—that one knows me. 

_Ah lover and perfect equal,_  
I meant that you should discover me so by faint indirections,  
And I when I meet you mean to discover you by the like in you. 

You know me, Em, and until I experienced that, I didn’t realize how lonely I was before. To find communion lying in your arms, or joining your laughter, when your head is thrown back and your eyes closed in the sheer joy of it – I didn’t know small things could bind a person so tightly. You’ve made my timid heart strong.

I love you. I could say it a thousand times in a thousand ways and it wouldn’t hold everything I feel.

Utterly yours,  
Spencer

 

January 10, 1944

Oh Emily

I received your New Year’s letter this morning… Ever since the bus took me away, a part of me doubted that you felt the same way I did, despite what you said. But now I know. I can send you all the sappy, poetry-soaked nonsense I want, freely, because of your “shameless” love. Thank you so much. I feel ten feet tall today.

But don’t listen to sad love songs and be blue. Don’t let this absence be better than you. This time is nothing – just a blip in our lives, that’s all. I’ve seen things here already – things you’d barely believe if I wrote about them. And there are rumors from Poland… _inhuman_ rumors that I can’t give credence to yet… it’s enough to swallow all hope. But yesterday I saw a soldier in a wheelchair kissing a French nurse when he thought no one was looking. The poor fella was irrevocably broken, no legs, burns to his hands, but this pretty nurse kissed him freely, both of them lighting up when they parted as if nothing could be more perfect. Hope still exists. It’s in everything around us: the green sapling poking through the scorched earth, children playing soccer in a ruined village square, a priest presiding over mass in the skeleton of a bombed-out church. We endure, Emily, but I want you to do more than just endure. I want you to strive, to achieve, to dream. I want those ideas in your head to come tumbling out without fear of what others will say or how they might try to squash them. If you fail at something, I’ll still be there, no matter what. You are so much more than you think you are.

So, no more sad songs, love. I want to hear about your crazy thoughts, and the things you think no one else wants to hear about. I want you to look past the war and see your future. I want your intelligence, humor, and sass. I want to know if you’re freezing your backside off over there like I am over here (everything but my neck, of course – my neck is toasty).

So, what do you have to say, my love?

Adoringly,  
Spencer

 

January 13, 1944

We are caught between German and American patrol units tonight. The Germans set the village on fire – THE SKY IS ON FIRE. It is nearly as bright as day – they must be using petrol. My team escaped to the woods on the outskirts – I don’t think either side knows we’re here – but we can’t light a fire and the ground is too frozen to dig in. We are curled together for warmth, watching the shadows of the winter forest for soldiers, survivors, wolves… I’m so scared, Em.

January 14, 1944

Jim, our communications officer, died in the night. He was at my back and I didn’t hear him make a sound. He wasn’t injured – he just… fell asleep and froze. The Americans found us at first light. We almost shot them before we realized who they were. They helped us bury Jim. 

The village is gone. I don’t know where the people went. Some are dead. We buried them too. My hands are covered in blisters, even through the gloves. I think I may have some frostbite because I can’t feel them.

The Americans are heading south, so we will travel with them for a ways. They came close to Paris and met some Russian deserters who told tales about the Germans rounding up civilians they find undesirable and placing them in huge war camps to the east. Not just soldiers, but women and children, babies, the old. The Russians claimed the Germans are killing these people _en masse_ by firing squad, forced labor, and in large, sealed buildings with gas. Thousands every week. It defies imagination. The Americans don’t know if they believe it, but one of the Russians said he saw it with his own eyes near Dachau. 

I shouldn’t tell you any of this, but I also can’t _not_ tell you. This is too important, and I know you can handle the truth. I need to tell Hotchner as well. Perhaps he’s already heard the rumors himself. But with Jim gone, messages will be harder to manage.

I will get this letter out to you somehow, Emily. I am safe, and I love you, and I am angry like I’ve never been before.

S.

 

January 20, 1944

Dearest Emily,

I got word to H. about Jim and what the Americans told me. He told me that my orders will remain unchanged, but somehow sending disinformation south doesn’t seem worthwhile now. I strongly objected, and offered alternatives, but the result was the same. I am fuming. I put word out to my local networks asking if anyone has heard of similar war camp tales, and I received some disturbing replies.

Emily, I believe the Russian story to be true. If _I_ can discover this – just one, lowly field agent – surely the higher-ups know it as well. I can only speculate why this isn’t general knowledge amongst the forces, if not to the wider public. It is so much more than a geo-political offense, it is _a crime against our species._ The Germans must be stopped at any cost, and soon. It makes my blood boil thinking on it… every day that passes, how many innocent, non-combatant lives are lost? And yet, my focus is still south towards Mussolini. 

I have doubts about the value of what I am doing, my love. I wish I could talk to you face-to-face about it. I will follow my orders, as expected, but every day I grow angrier.

Love always,  
S.

 

February 11, 1944

Dearest Emily,

I received a bunch of your letters at once today. Such a treat was dimmed by the fact that it appears you haven’t received any of mine. Oh, sweetheart, I am writing! I am thinking of you! Sometimes I write a letter a day, then I worry that my daily missives will bore you. After all, it is very boring here, aside from the times when it’s very dangerous, that is. If some of my letters frighten you… I’m sorry. I don’t mean to make things any harder to bear. But I trust you, Em. I don’t wish to hide anything from you – not my fear, my heartbreak, my anger. I write these things because I need your opinion when I doubt my own. And you’re the bravest, most intelligent woman I know. But my letters aren’t getting through. Did you get the pressed flowers I found in Montmartre? Or the granite rubbing I made from the medieval church? Or the drawings I sketched while traipsing through Provence? I guess not. So upsetting. I told you that you are with me wherever I go, and that is still true. Every day. I hope that one of my letters makes it through to you soon.

But such news from you, Em! FLYING? I laughed so hard, the fellas thought I was losing my mind a little. Laughing from joy, of course. I’ve said it before and I’ll proclaim it until my last breath: there is nothing you can’t do, lady. I wish I could watch you taking off, free in a completely new way… I’m so proud of you. 

And thank you for the story about your father and David. That was so personal, and insightful, and it moved me greatly. I understand that shiver of fear – of not knowing your next step. And I also understand how lonely that can be. I confess, I felt a little lonely reading all of this because… you are taking those steps without me. Don’t misunderstand that sentiment: I would never begrudge you these choices. I love your willful independence so much, and I have encouraged it too many times to put the brakes on now without becoming a total hypocrite. But every step you take widens your world and your view. Perhaps by the time we meet again, you won’t need me anymore. My validation and affection will seem like unnecessary lip-service. You’ll be a fully-realized captain of your fate – one who soars above me. I want that for you, Emily, but I’ll miss you when you’re above and I’m so far below.

Remember me when I am just a speck on the distant horizon…

Love always,  
S.

 

February 17, 1944

I have just woken from a dream of you. It was dark and heated, us crushed against each other as if trying to become one person. Lush obscenities fell from your lips and I licked them into me like a starving man. I felt you. I tasted you. You held me so tight it bruised. You cried and burst around me so hard that it shook me from balls to bones. We are no closer to perfection, you and I, than when hurtling through that pleasure. If there is a god in his heaven, I swear to him that all of me wants all of you, E. Nothing less will ever satisfy me.

I am awake now, and I ache.

 

February 22, 1944

Dearest Emily,

Just read your news about Millie and her corporal. I will remain conservatively optimistic about them, though I still think it’s too soon to expect her heart to turn towards another. If he is a decent sort, he’ll wait for her. Like Shakespeare said, love “…is an ever-fixed mark” – if he loves her enough to take her and her children on, it should be strong enough to wait until she can step forward with the same bravery.

I’m also jealous that you get to see movies, even if they are just on a sheet in an abandoned department store. I miss movies so much. And wireless programs. The French have those as well, of course, but they are heavily censored, and I have to struggle through translating it all in my head first rather than just listening. Ah, it’s the little things…

Your description of flying is breathtaking, Em. It’s as if this is waking up something long dormant in you. I don’t think that’s selfish at all. But what I found most interesting was your characterization of being a mechanic as “creative” and “giving”. I’ll admit that I’ve never thought of it in those terms, but it is very important and telling that _you do._ Whether you think you made this choice or not, I believe this is a fundamental part of you. You nurture it, thrive in it, and you view it as nurturing in return. You  must continue this once the war is done, Emily. I believe this passionately; to deny it would be to reject a part of yourself. Flying can be a part of it. Think about having your own garage, Captain. Would anything be as satisfying as running your own shop? Living by your own rules and hiring like-minded people? What a tremendous legacy of _giving_ that would be, huh?

I sent another report to H. this week, this time including the French information. But his response remains the same: keep going with my standing instructions. I am deeply frustrated. I have had no dealings with the enemy in any form over the past three weeks (which, no doubt, will cause you to breathe easier). I am acting like a glorified telephone passing messages back and forth between interested parties. The fellas are sitting around eating too much cheese, drinking too much wine, and flirting with women who are far too young for them. What are we really accomplishing? At least when I was further north, what I was doing felt actionable and immediate. And there are things we can do with this information! We can fashion a plan with the Resistance – we can do it from France, as I know we’ll never get permission to penetrate into Germany. 

The boys think I’m crazy. They don’t want me making waves. But how can we look away when people are dying in such a way?!? They tell me that everyone involved in this is dying and have been for years. Are they right? Is this just far bigger than me and I should let it lie with greater minds? Or is it not individual efforts that will make or break us? I am certain something can be done. Some small act that could signal others to do the same…

And it seems you still haven’t received my letters. Ugh! I WANT TO TALK TO YOU!  
Today is a day in which I miss you so intensely it’s making my teeth grind…

Love always,  
S.

\---- 

March 18, 1944  
Mildenhall

Hello, my love.

Hotchner sent a collection of your letters to me, and I’ve been up all night reading them. And, my god, I’ve been crying and I’m a mess. I have to be at the base for 07:00 and I look like a wet rag! But I’m so happy, Spencer, above all else. To see your scribblings, to hear your voice in my head again, to know you are alive. I’m shaking like I have a fever…

There is so much to say. Where to start? Perhaps where you need me most. Be careful what you do with the stories you’ve heard, Spence. You sound perilously close to dereliction of duty, and nothing good can come of that. Like it or not, we are all in service to a larger entity when we join up. We don’t know the whole plan, and we’re not meant to for reasons that may or may not be in our best interests. It’s ironic, I know, to hear me advising you to follow the rules. But you can’t do anything from the stockade, can you? Part of this is selfish, because I worry for your safety, and I am struggling to put that aside in order to advise you as you’ve asked.

I am horrified by the little you have told me. Sickened. How long could it have been going on? How many could have simply disappeared, never to have their fates known? This goes beyond barbarism or nationalistic zeal. The word is extermination. If you, or Evan, or Mother, or Millie and her kids were enslaved and then put down like animals simply for being who they are or living in a certain place, and people _knew_ and did _nothing?_ I’d go mad with rage. The grief and the hatred would end me. I feel your anger through your letters and it scares me, Spence, because I have never known you to be angry before. But I understand it. 

My beloved friend, this is my advice: make your plans. With the Resistance or whatever. Make them the best that you can. Then offer them to Hotchner. He’s a lawyer – show him an air-tight argument for action. Persuade him. But do nothing until he is convinced. You will convince him because you are a genius. You have all the skills required to do it. It may take time though, so don’t do the math in your head about the days passing you by. Pack that part of you away and focus on what needs to be done instead. You’ve done that before with horrors – do it again with this. This is a huge undertaking, Spence, and I’m terrified it will drag you away. But I wouldn’t be the friend you thought you had in me if I gave you any other advice. Just… Spencer, I love you. I need you to come back. Don’t die for the sake of humanity. It will not thank you or remember your sacrifice. 

The paper is wet. Dammit. Sorry. I’ll put this in the post this morning. Gotta get ready for my shift… More later.

All my love,  
E.

\---- 

March 22, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

Just came from an evening at Millie’s. Her corporal was there (his name is Gerald). He’s a good lad. Though he seems slightly terrified of Millie’s children, he plays with them and allows them to crawl him up and down, all with a gamely smile on his painfully young face. He had plenty of soft looks for Millie the whole time. I think it’s obvious he has a thing for her, and I told her so when we were alone. But it’s also quite clear that Millie is only flattered, not smitten. When I mentioned Gerald’s clear affection, her eyes drifted off and she got so blue so quickly I had to rush over and hug her. You are right: she’s not ready to love again. Her husband has a fierce grip on her heart. I said what you did – that if Gerald cares for her, he’ll wait, and she said, quite morosely, that no matter how much time passes she’ll never love another the way she loved her husband. That shook me. To think that she had something so fulfilling, and lost it is one thing. But to be aware that such a thing will never come again is something else. What could I say? I told her that may be so, but could she not love someone else differently? The thought that she’s written herself off at twenty-four chills me. And here I am, twenty-eight and a childless spinster. A grease monkey and, according to village gossip, a pesky, commie lesbian(!) Who am I to give her any practical advice on the matter? I left feeling glum and out of sorts (no doubt due to Sapphic exertions in between scheming to overthrow the monarchy and giving the crown jewels to the people – let them eat diamonds).

Now, I am thinking of you, and not all of those thoughts are polite. I never thought I’d miss a man’s sex. I mean, not in any lasting way. There are times when desires overwhelm you, but they pass. I’ve fallen before, but passions have always evened out over time, and then eventually subsided for one reason or another. But I’m at a loss with this… constant longing I have for you. It rises up in me sharply and leaves me breathless when I least expect it. And afterwards I feel embarrassed to be so mindless, when you are first and foremost my friend. Who you are is a tremendous part of the allure. But the physical intoxication seems separate, almost bestial, and I don’t know how to feel about that. Surely, it’s not normal to lose yourself so completely in another, is it? I don’t know why I’m asking you, since you were the one who asked me if it was always this way in the first place. I think the answer is a definitive no. Oh, Spence, whatever will we do with one another?

You’re probably wondering if I had anything to drink at Millie’s. Just a pint – I’m sober as a judge, Lieutenant, I swear. But also a horny little devil, it seems. My hooves and whiff of sulphur will just be one more thing for the villagers to talk about.

Oh, enough of this! I’m off to bed. I’ll feel better in the morning…

Love,  
E. xoxo

\---- 

March 31, 1944

Dear Em,

I am so relieved that you are finally getting my correspondence! Thank you for your advice about my situation and H. As always, you were forthright and realistic where I can sometimes be neither. God, I have missed talking to you! You are right about it all: the crime cannot be ignored, but there’s also little point in fighting without a viable plan or resources. I will need H. for both. And it was flattering to hear you think I can make a difference in this somehow. I forget how much I ride myself down before I even start something. I’ve grown to need your belief in me. I know this scares you, Emily. It scares me too. But I have to try. This is the battle of our generation; I just didn’t know how dire the consequences would be.

Your letter about Millie’s dinner just arrived this morning. I’ll admit that I read it three times over, and with great attention. It spoke to some things we’ve never really talked about before. Firstly, I think the letter itself is proof enough that you aren’t a lesbian (I laughed so hard at that bit), though the demon accusation is still up for debate. Also, I’m pretty sure that Marxism doesn’t involve eating inedible valuables, so that probably rules out Communist Party connections as well. (Who ARE these people, anyway? Do they still look favorably on burning witches too? Good grief!)

The first thing that caught my attention was your letter’s affect. You took Millie’s comments pretty deeply to heart, and it makes me wonder, are you already imagining a future where I am gone? I can’t blame you, not after everything I’ve written about wanting to engage in the fight more directly, but… Emily, I give you my solemnest word that I will do everything I can to come back to you. Despite the impression I may have given, I am not fighting for a nation or an ideal or even for justice. That’s how I began this war, but no more. I am fighting for my homeland, and that isn’t a place, it’s you. You are the only nation I belong to now; my home is wherever you are.

Something else caught my eye as well: you called yourself a childless spinster. Does your age worry you? Are you concerned that you may never have a family? Do you want one, or are merely chafing against the expectation of it? 

I will lay my cards on the table, though my hand shakes as I write these words: I want a family someday. Everyone related to me is dead. I want an anchor in this world – someone who will go on after I’m gone. This is an old want. But I long ago came to peace with the reality that it might never happen. I have no prospects to offer to a child – no home, no money – though he or she would never lack for love. If I never become a father, it does not make my life irrelevant. If you do not want to be a mother, that is nothing to feel shame about, though I’m certain many will try to make you feel that way. 

There is so much for you to do in this life, Emily. Motherhood is a choice like so many others, not destiny. _If_ you want to have children… all I can say is… if you were the mother of my children, I’d never want you to give up on your ambitions for their sake. Your garage, flying, or whatever else occurs to you – I’d want you to have that _and_ a family. Any man who would give you less isn’t worthy of you. 

To be clear: I do not believe you were indirectly asking about having children in your letter, and I am not placing that expectation upon us in this one. I’m just being honest about an awkward subject, which I have quite possibly made ten times more awkward in writing this. Oh dear.

And finally, though I’m almost too breathless to mention it, you… miss me in your bed? I’m blushing like a schoolboy. It’s terrible – one of the lads is bound to notice and razz me for it. ~~I~~ ~~You~~ This is so personal. Okay, here it is… 

You turn me inside out, Emily. I want you all the time, and, like you mentioned, sometimes it feels mindless and all-consuming. I push it away, push it down because you are beyond my reach (for one hundred and four days, six hours and fifteen minutes precisely at the writing of this letter). And I’ve always assumed it is a product of my inexperience. But if you feel that way as well… 

Emily, I don’t care that I want you like some brute animal. I _would_ care if that’s all I felt for you. But it isn’t. You said it yourself: we are first and foremost the best of friends. It is that reason, and only that reason, that I can give myself over to brutish craving. I couldn’t give that part of myself away without trust. My prior experience was very different; she did not enjoy physicality, and I made erroneous assumptions about all women based on that. I didn’t know that women could want the way that men want, but, trust me, I’m all for it now that I know it’s true. I do not believe we have anything to be ashamed of about this, Emily. If we desire each other that much, as well as love one another, well… isn’t that what everyone is searching for?

I have to pack up and leave soon – we’re on the move again. But I think my mind will be distracted by this for the rest of the day. How cruel of you. See? You are a demon after all. 

Sweetheart, I hope this letter lingers when you receive it. I hope it follows you into your bed and drives you mad. I hope it makes you dream of me in the same secret, close way I dream of you. Maybe we’ll meet in our dreams and find some satisfaction there. If not, push it down until we see each other again. I’ll be so desperate for you then, I’ll probably lose the power of speech…

With every polite and impolite love,  
S.

\---- 

April 5, 1944  
Mildenhall

Argh, Spencer! That last letter… who’s the demon now? I read it and then thrashed around restlessly all night as if you’d cursed me. Damn you. There’s only so many ways a girl can ease that sort of pressure, and I’m tired of feeling like an overripe peach waiting to burst open at the slightest touch. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’ll be cocking the walk wherever you go…

As for the rest of it, you’re right: I do worry about you never coming back. How could I not? You can’t make that promise (and have been careful not to do so, I’ve noticed), and it tears at me like a tiny rend in fabric that grows wider every day. I’m scared of loving this way, and then losing it all. What if what happened to Millie happens to me? To put an end to love with the death of a lover… Beyond all that, how would I become this high-flying marvel you imagine I’ll be someday without you waiting for me on the ground? It just feels as if we have everything to lose and no relief in sight. It gets a girl down, is all.

And I do want a family, Spencer (good lord, could you have made that part of the letter any more apologetic or awkward? What a tangle!). In part, I want a family because all little girls are taught to want one from the moment they can imagine futures for themselves. But you are also right in that I balk at giving up who I am for the role of mother. You make it sound so easy for a woman to have both, but how many examples have you seen of it? Men have both because they do not do both; they have wives to raise their kids and keep their homes. What man would do that for me and my ambitions? Would you? Yes, I’m really asking, Spence. If you survived and we became a family, would you sacrifice your future so I could have mine? It’s not so easy a question to answer, is it?

None of this matters if H. gives you permission to tear off after the Germans the way you want. I believe in you and your drive to do what is moral and right, Spencer, but this choice is nothing but terror for me. You say I am your homeland now. Don’t leave me an abandoned country of lonely peaks and empty shores. Don’t do it, damn you. I guess it’s my turn to be unexpectedly angry, isn’t it?

Spencer… I love you, and I believe in you. I’m just tired of being scared all the time. This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

E. xoxo

\---- 

April 10, 1944

Emily

I would absolutely give up my ambitions to raise a family with you and watch you achieve your dreams. It wouldn’t be a sacrifice in my mind because you’d be giving me exactly what I want: a home and people of my own to cherish. 

It’s an easy question to answer after all.

But will you seriously consider it, or were you just trying to provoke me?

S.

\---- 

April 20, 1944  
Mildenhall

I’ve been staring at your last letter for days, and I don’t know how to respond. But I have to respond _somehow._

What do you want me to say, Spencer? How could you write that last sentence and mail it to me while you are in a foreign war zone? The question changes nothing about our current situation, no matter what answer I give you. It’s a boy’s question, not a man’s. It denies reality.

I’m so upset right now, I can’t write anymore.

E.

\---- 

April 24, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I spilled the beans to Millie about our tiff and she says I screwed everything up. She says I was too busy being a watery-limbed fraidy cat to see what you were really saying. And she straight-up accused me of being a flighty broad to boot, which set me back on my heels a bit. I guess she knows how to get under my skin by now.

Anyway, it shut me up long enough to hear what she had to tell me. Her opinion is that I’m asking for a promise you can’t give (you surviving the war), and holding back a part of my heart as punishment for that. When put like that, I feel like a complete heel. She also said, and I quote directly here, “the bloke is who he is – can’t love him and ask him to change his stripes”. This is true: I knew what sort of man you were before we started up. You’re a man who hates bullies, and who runs into a fight to save those who can’t save themselves. Maybe H. doesn’t know it yet, but I know you’ll find a way to get involved in some scheme with the Resistance. I can’t stop it – it would be like asking you to stop breathing – and it’s poor play on my part to make you feel guilty about that just because I’m frightened. 

And I am frightened, Spencer. I’m not the brave woman you think I am. I hate to admit it, but I’m weak. I’m like every other dame who wants unconditional love and an easy life. I want what every woman wants, but I don’t want to acknowledge the responsibilities that come along with those things. I’ve been allowed to believe that I can get away with such nonsense by a doting father and my family’s privilege. Mother is right: I am a selfish person. I was all brass and big talk in America, and then I cowered against you in that tube tunnel, remember? That is the type of gal I am, not the one in your head.

I’m sorry, love. I guess I’m the one who’s been naïve about this, and I’ve made things harder for both of us as a result. I think it’s best if you rescind the question from your last letter; I’m not worthy to be asked that, just as you are in no position to follow through on it. This whole thing has made a terrible mess of me. I’m embarrassed that you’ve seen me this way. Perhaps I’m not right for you, too immature despite the years I have on you. I don’t know if we can go back to where we were before such a moment; I hope we can but I’m not sure. But more than that, I hope you can forgive how I’ve disappointed you. You are my best friend, Spencer, no matter what, but friendship requires respect and I fear I may have lost some of yours in all of this. Please allow me a chance to do better.

Once again, I am sorry.

E.

\---- 

May 1, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I haven’t heard from you in nearly three weeks. Have I truly broken us? Was that all it took? Please tell me you’ve just been too busy to deal with me. Write, even if it’s only to get angry…

E.

\---- 

May 4, 1944

 

She was exhausted. Ten hours spent in the guts of a recalcitrant B-52, she’d missed lunch, and then missed her ride back to the boarding house forcing her to walk in the unexpected, late-spring heat. She hadn’t had a lesson with Captain Henley in a week, and not a single letter of interest either. On top of that, she felt like she was coming out of her skin – she couldn’t sit still or settle anywhere – and it was impossible to tell which thing, if not all of them, was driving her crazy. She wasn’t sleeping well, wasn’t eating – the row with Spencer upending everything about her even if it was from a distance. Emily was fit to be tied.

She kicked a stone out of her path as she walked with an unsatisfied growl, shifting around under her uniform shirt until finally she popped the top two buttons and rolled the sleeves so that she could breathe a little. When she wasn’t working, which she was trying to do as much as possible these days, she was worrying about Spencer. Specifically, she was worrying over his silence. It seemed certain at this point that he’d taken offense, and her apology hadn’t been enough. When she asked Millie what to do now, she just shrugged her shoulders and went back to feeding her daughter. 

“Nothing for it,” was all she said, with her typical bluntness. “He’ll decide when he wants to, and no quicker. Blokes an’ birds are the same that way.”

That didn’t make Emily feel any better.

On the walk home, she decided she’d write another letter, this one demanding an answer as to whether they were done or not. Then she changed her mind and thought about writing something sad and begging. Then she shook that idea furiously away and settled on something blithely indifferent – all remarks on the weather and local gossip – to prove she was past it. And then she circled back around to an angry demand once again, because, surely, Spencer would see through her indifference. The cycle of fury, grief, and self-doubt turned her around again and again until she didn’t know where she’d land as she finally made it to the laneway that led to her boarding house.

“Fat-head,” she hissed quietly. “You knew he’d smoke you out eventually. Just too busy thinking you were a goddess to _see_ you. And you fell for it too, like a chump. You are your own fault, you dizzy broad…”

She wiped the heat from her face with her sleeve, wondering if a bath would be a temporary reprieve from her Sisyphean thoughts, when she caught sight of a hobo asleep on her front stoop, and stopped dead in her tracks.

She blinked. It wasn’t a hobo. He was propped awkwardly against the porch railing, a dusty and torn duffle bag between his scuffed boots. Dangerously thin, with a scruffy half-beard, his head leaned between two railings, tilted back in sleep just enough to allow a burned down cigarette to dangle between his lips. He was crumpled like he’d fallen there, and then was too tired to shift to something more comfortable. Her heart stuttered to a painful halt in her chest and then restarted after an excruciating moment of nothing.

“Spencer!” she yelled, and then she was running down the lane towards him, losing her cap in the process.

He twitched awake, disoriented for an instant as he tried to focus, and his forgotten cigarette fell from his mouth. Then he saw her barreling towards him, and he lit up the way she remembered and loved. She didn’t think to question it, or what it meant, or how it affected any of the other questions in her head, she just launched herself bodily at him, and he caught her with a grunt as he tried to prevent both of them from tumbling down the steps into the garden. He turned her in his arms so that she was draped half across his lap, and then her lips were on his, no waiting for a sign or permission. He froze for a split-second, and then softened to her, letting her in when she wouldn’t relent, and pulling her close enough that it hurt. He tasted stale and dusty, with the bite of tobacco and over-steeped tea, and then he moaned softly against her as if anything louder would use up the last of him. She slipped from his lips and retook them, over and over, each time her mind chanting, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry_. Her fingers clutched his jaw too sharply, her breath came too short against his mouth, and when they broke apart she thought she couldn’t bear it until she heard his broken, “Emily” against her cheek and it stilled her. She pulled back just enough to see his eyes, and they were red and tired like an old man’s. But he smiled at her.

“Hello,” he whispered, and it made her bark out a laugh as she blinked too quickly.

“Hello,” she murmured back. Then she swallowed hard. “You’re really here.”

“I really am.”

“Why?”

He settled her more comfortably against him but didn’t let her go. “Been recalled to London for a face-to-face with the Lieutenant-Colonel.” He let that land between them, and then he looked into her relentlessly. “And you and I have things to resolve.”

She went still, trying to read his intentions, but came up empty. Then she tossed away her pride altogether.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It came out wet and she cringed a little at the need it revealed. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”

Spencer cinched her against him and took her lips too roughly. He panted against her mouth until he had to break away to catch his breath. When he spoke, his voice was as wrecked as hers.

“I know you’re sorry, Em. I know it.”

“Is it enough?”

“Enough for what?”

“To go back. To be as we were before.”

“Why would we go back?” he asked, looking confused. Emily’s stomach sored into a painful knot instantly.

“Oh.”

“Em,” he waited until she met his gaze. The shadows under his eyes were a deep purple against the rest of him, magnified by his glasses. “Before, we were operating in a half-light of each other. Now we aren’t. We know where we stand. That is better.”

Was it better? Because it didn’t feel that way.

“Where do we stand, exactly?” she asked, and shut down any further thoughts so she wouldn’t jump to anymore hare-brained conclusions without him. He took his time before responding, just watching and holding her.

“We love each other in a dangerous, difficult time. And we’ve made mistakes, like anyone would. But we still love each other. Don’t we?”

She clamped her mouth shut and nodded furiously, blinking too hard.

“Well,” he said damply, and then cleared his throat to try again. “That’s the part that matters.”

“Oh god…” she whispered as she buried her face into his neck and began to shake.

“Em?”

“You… forgive me… for disappointing you.”

“Emily, what? Come here…” He grabbed her chin and directed her to look at him again. His expression was tired but also deadly serious. “There is nothing to forgive, and you haven’t disappointed me. You’re just… realer now than you were before. And you weren’t wrong when you said I’m naïve at times. I can admit that’s true, and it does us no favors.”

He leaned in and left an impossibly tender kiss across her shocked lips. “You are my truest friend. You don’t pull any punches – you never have, not even in love – and I will always admire you for that. It speaks to integrity. I’m no prize either, you know…”

He closed his eyes and leaned against her forehead, the weight getting heavier as the seconds ticked past.

“Spencer?” she murmured when his silence stretched to a minute. “Spence?”

He shook himself awake and blinked around in confusion again. She sighed, brushing her lips to his brow before quickly disentangling herself from him.

“You’re exhausted.”

“Yes,” he rubbed his face and then had to grab his glasses quickly when he knocked them from his nose by accident. “Been travelling for two days. Came directly here from Dover.”

“Why are you on the stoop, then? Just go inside to my rooms.” She offered her hand and they both lurched as she helped him stand.

“The landlady wouldn’t have it. She said there are no men permitted in the house.”

“Nonsense,” Emily huffed as she pushed him towards the front entry. “There’s a dame on the ground floor who has so many gentleman callers, we’ve named her ‘the carousel’. In you go. No arguing.”

He didn’t argue. Not in the front hallway, or in her rooms, and not when she stripped him down and pushed him back onto the bed. He grabbed her and brought her tumbling with him, smiling through his fatigue though his limbs were clumsy on her. She kissed him deeply, just to have him there and real beneath her once more, but pulled away quickly, telling him he needed a shave and heading to the bathroom for some hot water. By the time she got back, he was asleep, sprawled wide across her sagging bed, and softly snoring. 

“Well, I guess the whiskers can wait,” she mumbled, feeling tired herself now her anxiety had stilled. 

She could’ve used a bath and some food, but instead climbed into bed next to him. Curled close, though the early evening heat should’ve stopped her, she lay with him and he turned in his sleep to twist her up in his gangly grip. She sighed and felt her heartbeat slow as the day slipped from her. Her last thought was, if she never woke up again, this was a happy way to go.

 

But she did wake again, and when she did it was dark, and the air had cooled. His lips were at her throat, tickling and feather-light. She couldn’t see him – everything being reduced to silhouettes in the gloom – but she could feel him everywhere. The border where the heat of his body against her gave way to the breeze from the window, the pads of his fingers slipping under nightdress, the curious flick of his tongue along her collarbones, her neck, and finally to her lips. He sighed when she opened under him, and he rolled them until he was cradled by her legs, pushing soft and deep into her mouth with the tiniest noise of relief. He was still half asleep, fingers fumbling and kisses unfocused and lush, as if the searching and feel of kissing alone was all he cared about. She shuffled under him with effort, but wiggled out of her clothes, tossing them through the darkness with a gentle swish that made him chuckle at her ear.

“You should be sleeping,” she whispered as she cupped his head, drawing him to her when his fingers tripped across her nipple and then began to knead her.

“We should be fucking,” he slurred as he licked her throat, and she might have jolted at the sound of the word. He went still for an instant. “Unless you don’t want to.”

She nuzzled to his ear and sucked it in until he hissed. His hands tightened, and he twitched along her thigh. “Oh, I want to,” she breathed across the wet mess she left of his lobe and he shivered. “You surprised me with your directness.”

His hand started up at her breast again, as he made a strange noise in the back of his throat. He stroked her, lining her until her peak was impossibly hard, then he abused it with the warmth of his palm, and the rough flick of his fingertips. She moaned quietly – the house had ears and she was breaking the rules by having him there – but when his mouth replaced his hand, and his hand slipped between her thighs, she knew he was going to be a challenge to that.

“It’s been five months, Em,” he murmured as he mouthed her breast, then sucked, and then gently tugged her with his teeth making excited whimpers when he exhaled. She flushed against his hand unexpectedly, the strange need to crawl out of her skin ratcheting up unbelievably at his touch. She felt like she was losing herself a little in his quiet excitement. He groaned in appreciation, nipping the underside of her breast as he went. “I am _gagging_ for you…”

She squirmed and squeezed his hand between her thighs. His fingers slipped too easily, exposed by her need, and when he stroked through her, his hips pumped in anticipation. He stilled his mouth and focused, fingers outlining and circling her as she wiggled and bit her lip to stay silent. A wave of the unsettledness she felt earlier washed over her body and she clamped her thighs over his hand and tried to ride him suddenly and awkwardly. He let it happen for several moments – watching her move against him, open-mouthed and rasping like he was running for his life – and then she got her control back and released him with a whine.

“Sorry. This is hitting me fast…”

“You’re so wet,” he whispered with awe, like a man moving at half-speed through a dreamscape. “Already…”

“Jesus Roosevelt Christ…” she hissed and arched against his chest, one of her hands grabbing his and using it roughly on her as she twisted.

He shuffled down to let her use his hand with greater ease, and he gasped against her stomach each time she whimpered, every time a skip of his fingers made her twitch or roll. His hips pumps gently with an unwavering rhythm, and when the haze of her building tension cleared for a second, she felt the sticky press of him along her thigh and away, along and away… Her center throbbed once at that, and then the tension folded her back again, like she was being dragged under its waves. 

She pushed him harder, mindless with a pulling need towards him, and his hand skipped, a finger slipping into her, setting off a cascade of rolling want that was more pain than pleasure. She moaned, deeply, from some hidden place that was only joy and grief and exultation all inextricably tied together. He snuggled closer, his hips now keeping time with their hands. 

“Em…” he mumbled.

“Spence?”

“…all of you…”

“Spencer?”

His hips jutted forward, then caught and skipped over her thigh leaving a warm streak behind. She made a frustrated sound in her throat. He just moaned loudly.

“Spencer, are you with me?”

“Huh?”

“Get on with it,” she hissed, arching when another painful ripple told her just how little satisfaction she would get if they kept this up. “…oh god please get on with it…”

He pulled his hand away and clasped her hip, leaving wet marks when she moved and he had to grapple her close. Then he mumbled an ‘alright’ a moment before he pushed into her and the word collapsed into a light-sounding ‘ah!’ on him. His rhythm didn’t skip a beat, even when she swore into his chest and then stretched as much as she could under him, forcing him deeper. Wrapping her legs over his hips, she let him go to work: the huff of his breath fluttering her tangled hair, his hands pinioning into the saggy mattress as he tried for leverage, the old springs making an undeniable racket along with them…

“Emmm…” he moaned with too much growl in his voice – he was sure to be heard by the girl next door.

“Quiet, Spence… the house…” But she was moaning too, hiccupping for air when he stroked her.

“Can’t. Feel… _sogood_ …”

“Shhhhhh, please…” She curled her arms across his back and beared down, adding her motion to his, making the whole bed announce their actions to the neighbors, if they hadn’t already guessed. “Oh god…”

“Won’t be quiet,” he throbbed, and was rewarded with wet ‘huhnuh’ from Emily. He did it again. 

“Let them know,” he gasped as he stretched himself as long as he could manage. Emily let out a cry at that, and rose to meet him, nails digging into his neck, teeth along his throat as he strained over her. There was no way the house wouldn’t hear, and suddenly Emily remembered the window and had a sinking thought that perhaps the whole block row would know as well. A flash of shame lit through her, but there was also a sudden rush of something far more potent that quickly erased it. And she tightened everywhere, wound up and flushed with pride that he was _with her_. She wanted everyone to know it.

_He loves me. He’s mine._

“Jesus, Emily!” He clasped her waist hard in one hand and throbbed as if he ached like a dying man. Then he gasped out the rest, “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed you?”

She keened hard against him then, trying to muffle the wet cry she made when she called out to him. His hand at her waist quickly looped down and around to haul her back into him as he stroked for all he was worth. It wasn’t subtle at all – he was frantic with it, biting his lips so hard to stay quiet for her that the skin was pinched and pale at his teeth. She wanted to tell him to let go, don’t worry about the noise, but had turned to liquid under him, so she gave up and joined his rhythm instead. The bed springs were making an unholy din, and the creaky floorboards beneath that, and come morning there was no chance of her escaping this house without a blush. But she moaned him on, and rolled her hips wider, felt him sink further and further until the shaking took him. The muscles in his arms corded as he strained, his brow creased, eyes clamped shut and teeth in danger of piercing his lower lip. She dug her nails into his neck and arched as close as she could get without losing him.

“Never missed a man like I miss you,” she breathed against his ear.

He hitched once, breaking their rhythm utterly, then arched hard back into her as he hid his face in her hair and choked a series of half-heard whines that, all together, almost certainly formed her name. He worked them through the rest – the pulsing tension and the radiating waves of relief after them – rocking them in slowly dying arcs until it was over, and he was propped on shaking limbs, panting roughly against her throat.

She reached up, ran her fingers through the hair that was now long enough on top to pop up in unruly curls. He slowly lifted his head to stare at her, expression soft, tired, and completely amazed.

“Say it again,” he huffed, eyes darting from her eyes to her mouth and back again. “That it makes a difference when I’m gone…”

She swallowed hard. It had never crossed her mind what his life was like before they knew each other, that being noticed and missed was something he’d crave so much…

“Some days… I think I can’t bear it,” she whispered. “And then I find myself asking _why_. I’ve never had a problem putting things behind me when I have to in the past. I find myself asking ‘what’s changed’?”

He stopped flicking his gaze around and just looked into her eyes. “What’s changed?” he licked his lips.

“You,” she murmured, closing her eyes to soak up the feel of him before he moved and everything changed again. “The difference is you. Lovers fade, and friends have barriers you can’t cross. But I give _such_ a damn about all of you, Spence. It’s terrifying that you mean so much.”

He let out a breath that he might have been holding forever. Then he tried to reach up to her face and had to disentangle himself to manage it. He mumbled an apology at leaving her as he slid free, which made her smile in the dark, then he flopped next to her as his hand finally found her cheek.

“Thank you,” he whispered back, his other hand sinking into her hair and slowly drawing her to his lips. “Sometimes… I just need to know. Too young still to just believe it, I guess. And I always miss you, Em. So much.”

“Not so young,” she whispered when they parted. “You know what you want.”

His gaze got shadowed and serious. “Yes, I do,” he murmured in a way that make her shake a little. She waited for more, but he stayed silent. It didn’t matter so much; she was sated and exhausted all over. There was nothing she wanted more now than to curl tight against him and sleep.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she mumbled in hopes that her voice wouldn’t sound as sappy as she felt. “You make me so happy…”

He blinked rapidly in the dark and seemed a little lost for a moment. Then his hands drew her in again until his lips pressed into her forehead. “Oh sweetheart, that’s… everything…”

\---- 

The sunlight through the windows brought out highlights in his hair under her hands. She regretted having to cut the curls back, but knew it had to happen. At least she would be less severe than an army barber. It was quiet – just the crisp slice of the shears and the birds singing outside in the noon sun. There was a soft breeze billowing the linen at the window sills and a hint of lilac drifted along with it. It was a day beautiful and peaceful enough to make you temporarily forget the war, especially with the warmth of him close by and the way his eyes rolled closed when she brushed her fingers through his hair to shake out the clippings. He was putty at this point, stripped to the waist and lounging back in her easy chair, already relaxed from the shave she’d insisted on giving him. She exploited the opportunity to run her fingers over his face as she worked. His angles were sharper due to the lost weight. He needed regular, square meals, in her opinion, or he’d waste away. But in this moment, he was the picture of contentment, leaning into her hands with a slight curl to his mouth, his hands drifting over the edges of her robe like the breeze from the window.

“Almost done,” she murmured with a smile of her own.

He opened his eyes and watched her intently, his smile fading. She cleaned up his edges and then took a half-step back to assess the work. Then she nodded in approval.

“Much better. Now you’re just skinny, not skinny and shaggy.”

“Marry me,” he whispered from out of nowhere.

For a moment she was simply stunned, blank. Then she curled away to hide how much the question hurt.

“Don’t,” she mumbled, setting the shears down on her make-up table. “I don’t want to fight again. It’s too beautiful a day for that.”

“I’m serious. Emily, look at me…” His hands clutched the hem of her robe and tugged it until she glanced back at him. His relaxation was gone, replaced by an anxious urgency she imagined he wore often in the field. “There’s no one for me but you. Why should I hide that any longer?”

“Because you’re not mine. You’re the war’s, and it won’t let me have you until some generals somewhere come to their damned senses about this mess.”

He shuffled to the edge of the chair and then his hands hooked around the backs of her thighs and pulled until she stumbled to him again. Then he reached for her hands and directed them up to cup his face as he looked up at her with the same sort of plea he wore the day they parted in London. She felt her heart speed up and her mouth go dry. At the same moment, he swallowed hard and she felt it with her hands along his neck. His fingers squeezed around them.

“Darling, I love you. As the beautiful, boisterous, fearsome, troublemaking woman you _really_ are. You are everything I want and never thought I’d be lucky enough to have – and that’s not idolization, that’s demonstrable fact. We might not always be in sync, but I’m certain that we’ll always _try_ for one another, and that’s all I’m asking for. Let’s _try_ together, Em. Marry me in spite of this stupid war. Let’s make a stand when everything around us is busy trying to direct our lives – marry me before I go back to France.”

“ _Before_ you go back to France? But you leave on, what… Friday?”

He nodded and then shrugged quickly, his hands moving to her waist and circling in the silk along it.

“I know it’ll be quick, but… we don’t need a church, and unless you want a fancy wedding with family from the States and such…”

She involuntarily made a face, which he seemed to agree with.

“We just need a license. And I bet there’s a padre at Mildenhall who could perform the ceremony-”

“Spence, just wait. Wait a second, okay?” she hissed, and he shut up, looking worried. “Listen… five days isn’t enough time to plan a wedding. And you have to go down to London for your briefing, and I have shifts at the base all week…”

“Is that a ‘yes’?” He lit up hopefully. “A ‘yes’ with an asterisk?”

“Spencer, stop!” She pulled out of his grip and turned back towards the windows. This was foolish and pointless. It didn’t solve any of the dread or separation – it just made it more complicated. And if he died, she’d be a war widow – a woman scarred for life with a few weeks of happiness and a box full of letters as the only things to show for it. “This is stupid.”

She heard him get up behind her. “Why?” he asked softly, and she didn’t know that a single word could sound so broken.

“Because you’re being naïve again. Marriage is a promise for life, and you can’t make that promise. And I’m not allowed to hold you hostage to something you can’t guarantee, remember? So, why are you suddenly turning this around and asking me to do that instead?” 

“You’re equating marrying me to a hostage taking?”

She turned on him furiously, vision getting blurry that she angrily tried to blink away.

“I don’t want to be married for a week, or a month, Spencer. When I take those vows, I want it to be for the rest of a very long life, and you can’t give me that! So, we have a little ceremony, and we wear some rings, and everything is wine and roses until you don’t come back. And then I have to pay the consequences for that, not you!”

“So, if there wasn’t a war going on, would you have any hesitation?” he asked so calmly it infuriated her.

“No!”

He strode forward, clasped her by the jaw, and kissed her so soundly that she staggered back a step. Her hand flashed up and grabbed the arm holding her, but when he pulled back looking dazed and flushed, she yanked him to her lips again and put all of her frustration into it until they both moaned.

“God, you are so stubborn,” he said breathlessly when they parted, and he rested his forehead against hers. She just sighed at that, because she couldn’t deny it. Then he started in again, as if they hadn’t already gone through it.

“Marry me because I’m asking you _for life_ ,” he growled, glaring at her so she kept quiet for once. “The whole point of me is you, Emily. To be with you, to be your friend, your family, to watch you fly… and I have so much more work to do with you because you’re a mess.”

She blinked at him, taken aback, and got a smirk for her efforts.

“I’m coming back from France. Nothing can stop me from returning to my home.” His hand tightened along her jaw and then stroked up into her hair. “I don’t want any more of this ridiculous doubt between us like we’ve had the last month. I _know_ what I want – I’ve known it a long time. I don’t want to wait because the war says that’s prudent. If you’d marry me anyway, if the war was over tomorrow…” 

She sighed wetly and leaned hard against him. His other hand fell to her side and rubbed the silk over her hip gently.

“There’s no time, you lunkhead,” she whispered, but he grinned like a kid at Christmas.

“There’s plenty of time. I’ll zip down to London on Monday to meet Hotchner, and then come back and make the arrangements here. There’ll still be four days on my leave to work things out. I’ll take care of it all, promise.”

Her hand fell into the hair she’d just cut and massaged it. She gave him a look as if he were an enemy she couldn’t defeat. If that were true, it was one of his finer qualities.

“You’re sure about this? That you want to do it so soon?”

“I’d marry you today if I could,” he brushed across her lips. “Nothing is more important to me than this.”

She nipped him gently, breeze rippling her robe around her thighs. He stepped closer until he lined her from thighs to chest.

“Mother would be mortified…”

“So, I’ve solidified my status as the troublesome son-in-law then?” he grinned.

“Definitely. No formal engagement announcement, no parental consultation, no wedding shower, no designer dress, no arguing over caterers and stationary…”

“Oh,” he said suddenly and pulled away from her like she was on fire. He jogged to the other side of the room and began dumping the contents of his duffle bag onto her floor.

“Wow, and the honeymoon’s already over,” she grumbled. Then he made a happy shout and strode back to her tossing a small cloth bag in the air and then having to dance around awkwardly when he failed to catch it and it nearly bounced under her chest of drawers.

“What-” she started.

“Here,” he popped forward and tried to act smooth. Fiddling around with the bag, he eventually shook a ring out of it into his palm. It was a thin gold band with two small diamonds twinned together. He held it out proudly, his cheeks pinking up. “You’ll have a ring, at least.”

“Spence…” she whispered, hand shaking as she reached for it. “Where did you…”

He shrugged. “Shortly after I landed in France, we skirted the edges of Montmartre. There was a battered little antiques shop there selling all kinds of things. The shopkeeper said he was giving me a deal. I guess there isn’t much of a market for engagement rings in a war zone…”

She looked at it, speechless. Eventually he gently grasped her hand and slid the ring into place when she found that she couldn’t move.

“It’s not much. You deserve something much fancier,” he murmured. “But it took most of what I had.”

Five months ago. He’d bought a ring five months ago, thinking about this moment. Her throat closed up and she blinked back the blurriness as he assessed his efforts with a little curl to his lips.

“Huh. Look at that – it fits perfectly. Lucky…”

She pulled him in again, lips pressing hard until his popped apart, and then she slipped in languidly, lost in the rush of her pulse, the strange electricity thrumming through her that only seemed grounded through him. They lingered, falling into the silence of before, only broken occasionally by a birdsong from the garden outside or the slip of their hands moving over each other. She curled an arm around his neck, her other finding a home at the dip of his bare back. His hands smoothed the robe over her hips and back, then they skirted the tie at her waist and flicked its edges. She mumbled against his mouth, tilting her hips once against him, and then his fingers tugged at the tie, slowly, until the bow popped loose and the robe parted up the center. She pulled her mouth away then, brushing it into his cheek instead.

“Bed,” she whispered, his hips bumping hers briefly telling her they were on the same page. “No formal engagement party, but we should celebrate nonetheless.”

He nodded against her and then mumbled, “It’s gonna be so much more than you can imagine, Emily. Just see if it isn’t. We’re gonna be so happy.”

She backed up and shrugged the robe off her shoulders. His eyes never left her, even when the fabric swished to the carpet, then she smiled and turned, walking slowly back to the bedroom. It took him a moment to catch up, and when he did he was as bare and brazen as she was. She chuckled gently as he crowded up behind her, lips skimming her shoulder to her neck until she shivered in the noon heat. She told him to be as loud as he wanted this time. After all, the rule about men in the boarding rooms only applied to unmarried couples.

\---- 

Spencer was making a bit of a scene at the train station. He kept grabbing her up and kissing her lavishly in front of everyone on the platform. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was grinning like a lunatic in his pressed and stuffy dress uniform. Pensioners were giving them judgmental glares and children were giggling. There were even a few whistles from other uniformed Joes. He seemed oblivious to all of it, and Emily was too swept away by his enthusiasm to worry about what others thought for once. 

“You’re acting like a fool,” she smiled when they broke apart because he’d bumped her with his glasses and nearly sent them skittering across the station tiles. He fumbled them back across his nose, and then the smile came back.

“I don’t care,” he said. “I want folks to know I’m the fool who won the heart of the best girl ever. Fools get a bad rap and this could set people straight.”

She sighed. He could be so _young_ sometimes – it was almost deceptive. Then there were times when he was so much more than this bouncing, befuddled ball of optimism – when he wrote about his anger, or sat up with her and told her the things that he couldn’t trust to paper. And there were still other times when he was the furthest from a boy as he could be, like the two and a half days they’d basically spent locked in her rooms enthusiastically making up for lost time.

“Well, you might want to check the goofiness before you sit down with Hotchner.” She knocked her forehead against his, careful to avoid his glasses this time. They curled their fingers together and she felt him outlining the ring gently like he was checking it was still there.

“I’ve got a whole train ride to get serious. Don’t worry,” he smirked.

The train pulled into the station with a mess of smoke and clanging. Passengers began to shuffle across the platform towards the porters who’d laid out steps up into the cars.

“That’s you,” she murmured, watching people board and feeling strangely anxious as if this were the bus departure all over again and she’d simply forgotten it. His hands squeezed hers until she looked back at him.

“It’s just a day. I’ll be back tomorrow, and we’ll be married on Wednesday. Okay?”

He ducked to catch her eyes and then smiled when he did. She smiled back and shoved the hesitation aside. He took her mouth again softly, deeply, a hand rising to hold her face like she was precious.

“That’s it,” he whispered with satisfaction when they slipped apart, his lips skimming to her cheek as he held her close. “That’s my Captain. You’ll talk to Millie today?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I feel like I should have someone’s blessing in all of this,” he chuckled.

“Mine isn’t enough?” she sassed.

“Everything about you is enough, Em,” he said seriously before he leaned in for another kiss. “God, I’m so happy. I didn’t know a fella could be so glad of something…”

The train whistle sounded, and the station porter called for everyone to be aboard. Emily and Spencer popped apart quickly and then half-jogged half-tripped their way to the nearest car with Spencer’s duffel bag.

“Quick, or you’ll miss it!” she huffed as he ran to the car that had begun to slowly chug forward through the station. He loped awkwardly on his bad leg, and she held her breath as he jumped to reach the car railing with his free hand. But he made it, lumpy duffel and all, and turned back to find her with a face-splitting grin.

“Back soon!” he shouted and waved too vigorously. “Love you!”

She smiled and waved as well, watching the train curve out of the station with all of its smoke and chugging. It disappeared behind the hedgerows and fields beyond, and then he was gone.

\---- 

“Emily! Telephone for you!”

Emily popped her head out of her rooms and saw the phone receiver lying on the hall table. She shuffled towards it as she tied her robe. It was pretty late for a phone call.

“Hello?”

_“Em, it’s me.”_

“Spencer?” she smiled and sighed into the receiver. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t go one day without talking to me…”

_“It’s, uh… it’s not that. Though I do miss you something awful. But that’s not the reason why I called.”_

“Oh?” Her gut tightened. Late-night phone calls were like crows in a churchyard – always bad news.

_“Yeah. So… I’m not coming back. To Mildenhall, I mean.”_

Her whole body went cold in an instant and she began to shiver. She pulled her robe tight around her in the muggy night air. _It was a mistake. He’s changed his mind…_ She struggled with herself and the silence stretching over the line, and when she spoke, she surprised herself with how calm and even she sounded.

“May I ask why?”

 _“Emily, it’s not like that… I know what you’re thinking and… it’s not that,”_ he sounded nervous, speaking quickly and with a tightness to his voice. _“I love you, Captain, you know I do… but I spoke with Hotchner and… things have changed.”_

Silence stretched out for another minute. Emily could hear something rattling the garbage cans at the side of the boarding house.

“I think you’re going to have to explain that, Spence,” she said.

_“Well, I, uh, spoke to him about my plan, just like we practiced…”_

She saw him in her mind, pacing back and forth across her creaky floors, reciting his argument while she peppered him with questions and counter-arguments until it was perfect.

“And? How did it go?” She dreaded the answer.

_“He refused it. Again.”_

“Oh.”

_“But he offered me something else. A different way to make a difference. But it means I have to return to France tomorrow on the first available transport.”_

“Tomorrow?! But… surely it could wait just one day… long enough for us to get-”

 _“The mission is… time-sensitive,”_ he interrupted, already sounding distant and far, far from home. _“It’s… I can’t talk about it, but it’s already underway and my window of opportunity is rapidly closing. If I don’t go now, I can’t be a part of it.”_

She heard him sigh deeply over the line.

_“It’s not what I wanted, Emily. But it might be just as crucial as the plan I envisioned. This assignment… it has a real chance to change things. For everyone. Hotchner pulled a lot of strings to get me involved because he knows how important this is. And… I think he believes in me…”_

She wanted to say she believed in him as well, but she couldn’t. Not with her heart cracking behind her ribs the way it was. He’d said that nothing was more important than her… She should’ve known that that didn’t include duty. Young men were always being carried away by big ideas and big causes. It’s why Evan joined up before he had to. And look at how that turned out?

_“Emily? You still there?”_

“Yes,” she cleared her throat. “I see.”

_“Emily, don’t do that. Please. I love you and I WANT to marry you. We’ll do it when I get back and… and we can make it better, grander… I love you so-”_

“I have to go. Another girl is expecting a call, so…” A tear skimmed down her cheek and she brushed it away as her mouth tightened to a thin line. “Be safe, Spencer.”

 _“I have to do this, Em.”_ He sounded torn, but also the way he did when he talked about walking through burning villages and burying people whose names he’d never know.

“I know,” she said quietly. “You’ve made your choice.”

_“Emily, don’t hang up. I-”_

“You’re a good man. I mean it. Goodbye, Spencer.”

His voice buzzed across the line as she hung up the receiver. She didn’t catch what he’d said. The phone rang again as she made it to her rooms. When her neighbor popped her head into the hall, she looked at her oddly.

“You gonna get that, luv?”

“No,” she opened her door without looking back, calling over her shoulder. “If it’s for me, tell them I’ve gone out, would you?”

She closed herself in and wasn’t bothered by further calls. Turning out the lights she curled onto the bed and watched the curtains move in the evening breeze. She did her best to go numb, unwilling to discover if her heart was _actually_ broken by the one person she trusted it to, and after he’d convinced her that crazed happiness was her lot in life. She should’ve known better – she’d never been that lucky. And now they’d said goodbye for the second time. What were the chances he’d make it back to tell her how slipshod her effort had been this time around?

She lay there in silence until sleep finally claimed her, feeling bruised by her choices.

\---- 

May 8, 1944

It’s just past dawn and my transport is waiting, but I want to put this in the outgoing mail before I leave. I called again but a girl said you weren’t there. Emily ~~I~~ This is killing me.

You were so quiet on the phone. And when you said goodbye, it felt like a farewell. You said I made my choice, and maybe you were right, in a way. But it’s not the choice you think. I did not choose this assignment over you. I was going to return to France anyway – it was a choice between doing more of the same, or doing _something._ And you know how I feel about the utility of my standing orders. This is hardest thing I’ve ever done, or probably ever will do, and if it’s cost me you, I don’t know if I can stomach that no matter the outcome.

Emily, please – I adore you. Tell me you’ll forgive this. Tell me you’ll still wear my ring until I get back.

They are waving me on. I have to go.

I am yours until the end, Captain.  
\- S.  
Dover

\---- 

May 14, 1944

Dear Em,

Maybe it’s too soon to expect a letter, but will I hear from you? I hope so. I can’t tell you where I am, but send correspondence to the usual address and it will find me. 

I’m doing things I’d never thought I’d do. Now, I’m using my education to kill. Before, I worked in the shadows, killing only in defense of my life or innocents. But now my killing is intentional, plotted, planned. And though it’s in service of a larger goal that I understand and embrace… oh, Em, I feel very alone in my skin right now. What I’m doing is grey – I can’t stop myself from wondering if you’d hate me for it or not. Though you perhaps already hate me for other reasons.

This life of mine isn’t what I thought it would be at all. How did I become this man? It was cloistered and stuffy – but safe, predictable. Now I’m working with people from four different countries on things that could quite literally blow up in my face, and I don’t trust any of them further than I can throw them. And then there’s you. I love a woman so far beyond my reach it’s laughable, and though you are the best part of this unimaginable life I find myself in, I keep failing to make you mine. 

I should’ve found a way to marry you, Emily. Even if it was in the back of a truck on the way to Dover, I should’ve found a way.

I’m scared, Em, of so many things right now. I’m trying hard to be the man you once believed in. Do you believe in me still? I’m clinging to the idea that you do. I need you with me out here, by my side. I need some of your indomitable spirit to bolster mine. You’ve always made me better, love.

With everything I have,  
\- S.  
France

\---- 

May 24, 1944

Dear Emily,

I haven’t heard from you. I don’t know what that means.

I need to tell you something.

Very soon you will hear about something. Everyone in the world will hear it too, and depending on whether all the parts of the plan align or not, it could change all of our futures. I left you to be a part of this plan. You will see how immense a thing had to be in order to drag me away from you. I hope you will be proud of the effort. It took more strength of will than I thought I had. 

I don’t know how this thing will work out – whether we shall succeed or fail. And I will be in a certain amount of danger, I won’t lie to you. If I do not make it back, I need to tell you that knowing you has been the best part of my time on this earth. I have never had more fun, more sorrow, or a better friend. And as a friend to you, beyond the ups and downs of our love, I only ask that _you never forget who you are._ Stay true to that stubborn, outspoken, adventurous spirit inside you. Become a pilot. Start your own business. Remain passionate and unapologetic in your principles. And never let anyone tell you the backseat of life is all you deserve. 

I love you still in this silence and uncertainty that’s fallen over us. If I die here, I will die in love. And if I don’t, I’ll come back and badger you into loving me again. I’ve decided. All of me wants all of you. If I can do what I’m about to do, I can achieve anything, even your heart.

All my love,  
\- S.  
France

\---- 

May 30, 1944  
Mildenhall

Spencer, you’re an idiot.

But you’re an idiot I love.

I needed some time to build up the armor again that you so skillfully stripped from me. Leaving me bruised and alone was a hard thing to swallow, you know. But I’ll survive – as should you, if you know what’s good for you. How dare you say that you’re going to fall down and die somewhere in Europe _in love_! Don’t be a maroon – just get your butt back here.

I’m still wearing the ring. Don’t make me regret that decision.

Love,  
\- Emily.

\---- 

June 7, 1944  
Mildenhall

Jesus Christ, Spencer! NORMANDY? Are you involved in that???? Please, Spence, _please tell me you aren’t there!_ I don’t care how noble this cause is, or how you broke my heart, or how angry I am at you – just COME. BACK. This instant, do you understand? Come back so I can beat you up for being the silly man that you are. Everyone’s glued to the wireless even though it’s the same news over and over…

God, please don’t leave me here alone, S.

\- E. xoxo

\---- 

June 12, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

The updates from France are terrifying, but also hopeful. I don’t know if we’re getting the whole truth or not, but… where are you? Tell me someone is watching out for you. I was sick today before my shift – I’m not sleeping and I’m nervous as hell. I’m just a mess. All of my pique about you leaving so suddenly seems selfish and pointless when compared to _this._ I should’ve told you I believed in you – because I do – and I should’ve explained that I love you even when I’m spitting nails – because that’s true as well. I wish you hadn’t done what you did, but, gosh Spence, what brass that must have taken!

This is hitting Millie oddly. I think she’s reliving her husband’s end through me somehow. Not that you’re dead or anything… I spend a lot of nights at her cottage with the kids, listening to her broken down wireless (which I spent half the time repairing) and just staring into the darkness with them. It’s almost all you can do in the uncertainty, especially when you can’t affect any of it. Captain Henley has been mostly absent on missions, but when we have a chance to talk, he says the flyboys are all jazzed about this offensive. He says they feel like it’s a turning of the tide – no more fighting just to fortify the bulwarks. People feel like things are shifting. 

I can’t keep begging you to be safe and come home. It seems like that’s all I ever do. Perhaps it’s just best to assume that I’m a disaster over here waiting, and save us both the time and ink. But if you find a few minutes to scratch out a few lines and send them back, that might help a little.

Yours, always,  
\- E. xoxo

\---- 

June 20, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

I really wish I could talk to you. I haven’t been well the last few days and I laid up all last night imagining you on the pillow across from me and pouring my fears out to you. It helped, until dawn, and then you were gone again. I know these letters contain a lot of nothing at the moment, but I’m going to keep sending them. It makes me feel as if I’m next to you out there, like you asked. And maybe that helps – who knows…

This week I achieved forty hours of flight time with Henley, even with his punishing schedule. He’s a good sort to keep doing it in spite of everything else on his plate. He still thinks I could apply for a license by August, but who knows where the world will be then. I have to master landings first. Ironically, getting _up_ is a breeze. You’d think it would be the other way around.

Sorry, love, I can’t seem to focus for more than five minutes at a stretch these days. I’ll pop this in the post as is, I guess.

Miss you. Worried,  
\- E. xoxo

\---- 

June 30, 1944  
Mildenhall

Dear Spencer,

It’s been a month without word. I guess I should be used to this, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if I’m without practice. But I need to hear back from you, Spence. Something has happened here, and I need advice. It’s… it’s not the sort of thing I want to put down on paper and send out into nothingness. I need to know you’re on the other end somehow. Please, Spencer, this is important. You know there’s no one I trust more than you.

Henley, Milgrew, all the boys, in fact, seem to think we’re winning (in Normandy, if not anywhere else). Is that true? I take the news service claims with a grain of salt, since they always seem to suggest we’re prevailing. All I know is that I’m working to the bone to keep all the battered old birds in the air. Shifts have stretched to fourteen hours, and even with all that labor, I’m still not sleeping. I’m losing weight too – I’ll be skinner than you by the time you get back if I don’t find a way to get interested in food again.

Please write back, Spencer.

All my love,  
\- E. xoxo

\---- 

July 11, 1944  
Mildenhall

It’s seems like it’s all but over in Normandy. Are you out there? Are you still with me? I really need to hear from you, Spence.

\- E. xoxo

\---- 

July 30, 1944

She shuffled back to the boarding house, miserable under the heat, her back sore and her stomach sour in a way that she’d become used to. Absently, she noticed how her overalls hung off her, and she wondered how long she could sustain that. The landlady had already taken to popping by at odd moments and shoving meat pies at her with a look of sympathy. Gladys and Fee were sitting on the stoop when Emily turned down the lane to the boarding house, their hair bound up in kerchiefs and aprons damp as they smoked. They must have been on a break from the washing or something. She managed a smile and a wave at them, but their smiles faded when they saw her though they waved back. 

“Hey girls,” she called out when she got to the garden fence. “What’s the word?”

“ ‘lo, Em,” Fee ducked her eyes away.

“Package came for you, luv,” Gladys said softly, then puffed on her cigarette to hide her face in the smoke. “It’s in the hall.”

“Okay,” Emily said, flicking her gaze between them and their odd behavior. “Everything all right?”

“Sure,” Fee squeaked and then acted all fascinated by a bee in the flower beds. Gladys huffed at Fee, then lowered her cigarette and looked Emily in the eye.

“You should go inside,” she said with a serious expression that she rarely wore.

Emily nodded, forcing a neutral look across her, and fighting the swirl of her stomach as she mounted the stairs. The hall was blissfully cool compared to outside, and she took a moment to let that settle over her while she scrubbed her sweaty neck with her kerchief. Letters were set out for tenants on the hall table next to the telephone. There was a small bundle of them tied with string set aside from the rest. Emily hesitated, initially aflame with the bright flare that Spencer’s mail had suddenly appeared all at once, and then having that hope snuffed out when she saw the handwriting on the envelopes. She went horribly numb everywhere, watching her fingers flip through the letters to see the dates of the postmarks. She was separate from it, floating above the table and watching someone who looked just like her collect the package and calmly walk toward her rooms. 

When she moved through her rooms, she wasn’t in England, she was in New Haven, and she wasn’t who she was now, she was as she had been. Clutching the telegram close, eyes desperately searching for a place in the house where Mother wouldn’t find her.

_Is that you, Emily? What a racket you’re making! Where have you been?_

_Sorry, Mom. I was at the pictures._

_Come here. The Hendersons sent me an invitation to something but I can’t make out Grace’s handwriting for love nor money…_

_Be right there, Mom. One second._

She’d locked herself in the laundry room, since it was the last place her mother would think to go, and tore the telegram open pleading for it to be something else. 

**_We regret to inform you…_ **

And that’s where the help eventually found her, curled next to the clothes wringer, telegram crushed in her grip and a hand clapped over her mouth to keep everything inside. The housekeeper had pried the paper from her hands and then sobbed once, terribly, when she read it. Emily felt wetness on her face but couldn’t remember crying, and she was as numb then as she was now.

 _How do I tell Mom?_ she’d asked, but couldn’t remember if the housekeeper said anything back.

And then she was back in England on a hot summer’s day, looking down at bundled letters on her table in her handwriting. Her stomach lurched violently, breaking the disconnected trance and making her gag audibly. She bent forward, bracing her arms on the table and breathing through the nausea as a small breeze drifted through the windows across her sweaty brow.

“fuck,” she whispered, and struggled to swallow the bile back.

In the afternoon sunlight streaming across the table, the stamp was clear on each envelope.

**_Return to sender. Addressee deceased._ **


	5. Homecoming

The first days afterwards passed hazily and without detail. Somehow, Emily discovered that the pervasive ‘carry on’ attitude had seeped into her, and she’d found a way to work through her shifts at the base and come back to the boarding house without thought. She had no memory of these moments though, her world roaring suddenly back to life a week later when she found herself standing in front of Milgrew who was yelling at her for taking her sweet time with a Spitfire engine overhaul. It was like a light being switched on; one moment she was swaddled in grey numbness, the next she was vibrantly being dressed down for work she couldn’t remember doing.

“What’s wrong with you, Prentiss?” Milgrew barked, hands on hips and face getting red. He was probably perturbed that she wasn’t putting up a fight like usual. “Have I given you too much rein here? Your work has always been average, but you’ve never been a dawdler before. This is His Majesty’s Air Force, Technical Sergeant. There is no time for dawdlers. And you look green around the gills. Good lord, is this a _female_ problem? THIS is why there shouldn’t be ladies in the services – you’re all constitutionally incapable of following orders-”

“My friend died,” she said quietly in the middle of his diatribe, and perhaps its lack of heat caught his attention. “In Normandy.”

“Ah, well…” Milgrew rolled back on his feet, his body language easing slightly. He cleared his throat and glanced around the hanger as the rest of the mechanics scuttled back to their duties. “I’m sure he was a brave lad. All of the lads at Normandy were. A tremendous thing that.”

Suddenly she was hit by how insufficient the term ‘friend’ was. It was hollow and tenuous, like a broken eggshell, and Spencer had been full and vibrant and too much to believe. He had been _whole_ , not a sheet thrown over an association in order to make it easier to grasp. It wasn’t a ‘friend’ she’d lost, it was a compact pocket of ‘everything’ that the universe had gifted to her, and now she had no idea what to call it. But ‘friend’ wasn’t it and it made her hot with anger that she had to lose him before she really thought about this.

Then the tears came without warning. Huge wet gulping masses of them – the kind she hadn’t cried since she was a child. It was shocking – to her as well – leaving her shaking and struggling for air between the swelling gusts of public humiliation. Milgrew stood there blinking, color drained from his angry features, and his mouth popped open uselessly. Like all men, he had absolutely no idea what to do with a crying woman.

“I say now… I say, Technical Sergeant… ummm…” 

He took a step forward as if to hug her, and she twitched, staring at him warily as she snuffled and attempted to get herself back under control. Milgrew, too, seemed to view this impulse as distasteful and ended up slapping her on the back like she was a buddy from the pub.

“I apologize, Sergeant,” Emily gulped, feeling translucent and temporary, as if she were water trying to form the shape of a person. “This behavior is extremely unprofessional.”

Milgrew patted her again with a grimace. “I think a leave might be appropriate at this time.”

Emily’s gaze narrowed as she viciously wiped the tears away. “I can do the job, sir.”

“Finish out your shift, Prentiss,” Milgrew dismissed her statement, as he so often did. “Then you’re off for a fortnight. Corporal Wilson can take over your scheduled assignments.”

“Sir-”

“Technical Sergeant, have you forgotten the chain of command? This is not a suggestion.”

“Yes, sir,” she growled wetly and saluted him. It was what he expected from her, but she dearly wanted to flip him off instead.

Milgrew strode away quickly, no doubt happy to be done with her instability. Emily turned back to her dismantled Spitfire feeling drained of everything. It was the first time she’d really cried, but she didn’t feel any better.

\---- 

She stepped up into the train car feeling woozy but a little more herself now that she had something to focus on. She’d also started to force herself to eat because that was important, and it was helping with her energy if not her overall mood. She gave her ticket to the porter and settled in her seat, ignoring the doffed hats of the gentlemen sitting across from her. She was in civvies today and she assumed they thought she was a lady, not some mouthy, fractured American broad with nothing but what she brought with her on the train.

She practiced her speech in her head as the countryside whizzed by, rolling her ring around her finger absently. When she saw sunlight glance off the diamonds, she looked down and stopped. Her throat closed up and her eyes began to sting. She closed them, forcing herself to breathe deeply and to keep her breakfast down.

_Help me, Spencer. Help me do this one last thing._

When she opened her eyes, she was calm, and her stomach maintained its dignity. Then she forced Spencer behind a door inside her. She apologized as she shut him in, but she needed to be numb for what was next. She needed to be as bloodless and cold as her patrician mother, and she told herself it was fine because she was doing it _for him._ And she’d do anything for him.

\---- 

Lieutenant-Colonel Hotchner stood when she entered his office looking stern but also a bit bewildered by her presence. She saluted him even though she was in a traveling dress, and he mumbled a greeting and told her to be at ease.

“Technical Sergeant Prentiss, my bat man told me that you just walked in and demanded a meeting with me.” He scowled. “This is highly irregular.”

 _Really?_ she thought. How many men would he have to lose in order to be this glib about casualties? For a brief moment, she pitied that death seemed so workaday to him. She shook off the flash of irritation and searched around in her bag. She had a mission to achieve, not a man to re-educate.

“Lieutenant-Colonel, I’m here about Lieutenant Reid. I need to know what happened to him.”

“I’m afraid his whereabouts are classified. A fact of which you must already be awa-”

She tossed the bundled letters onto his blotter with a soft thud. Hotchner’s eyes flicked to them and then became strangely focused. It was difficult to tell because his expression shifted so minutely, but he might have been mildly surprised.

“How long has he been dead?” she asked without feeling. Reciting the questions in her head until they were meaningless had paid off. “Where is his body? He has no living kin to notify so that’s why I’ve come. If it hadn’t been for these letters, I might have never known.”

Hotchner was still staring at the letters, the fingers of one hand pinching the back of his office chair as he stood next to it. Then he looked up at her, his expression unchanged.

“I understand you are his friend, but I cannot give you-”

“Fiancée,” she interrupted. “Not friend.”

Hotchner didn’t shift a muscle but his expression went neutral in a heartbeat. “I was unaware,” he said gently. “I apologize.”

“Thank you,” she said, all business, as she snapped her bag closed once again. “That’s all well and good, but you can imagine how difficult it is to wait in limbo and then have to fight the organization you work for to get information which is yours by right.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “I realize the services don’t view sweethearts and intendeds as ‘family’, but I went through a similarly opaque process trying to discover how my brother died, and I have to tell you that it adds rage on top of grief to be denied our loved ones at every turn.”

“I… uh…” Hotchner faltered. Emily took the opening to soldier onwards.

“Where _is_ he, Lieutenant-Colonel?” she stepped towards his desk and laid a hand across its surface for support. “I want to take him home with me to New Haven to be buried in our family plot. We were almost family… no, we _were_ family. That’s all he ever wanted. He’ll get it in death, I suppose.”

Her voice gave out suddenly, and her traitorous stomach heaved mightily in warning. _No, not now…_ She gulped a deep breath in.

“Technical Sergeant?”

“He was a friend of my brother, you know. When the war ends, I’m having Evan brought home to the same plot. That way I can visit them both without an excess of fuss…”

The brittle mask of her mother broke, and she leaned hard against Hotchner’s desk as she imagined herself sitting before the graves of the two men who mattered most to her, telling their headstones about the minutiae of her life without them. A wave of dizziness washed over her, making the room spin, and her fingers dug into the desk for all she was worth. She would _not_ become fragile now. But she couldn’t stop herself from breathing roughly and trying to fight off the cold sweat that popped up instantly as her stomach heaved again.

“Technical Sergeant, you aren’t well.”

She heard him round the desk quickly and lay a hand lightly on her shoulder.

“Please sit.” His tone was gentle, and he directed her to a chair with care, not a flustered sort of anxiety. Unlike Milgrew, Hotchner had a vague clue about women. “Would you like some water?”

She looked up and fixed him with her most deadly stare, taking a bolstering breath as she did so. “What I want are answers, Lieutenant-Colonel.”

Hotchner’s hand slipped away and then he followed, watching her with an appraising eye that had been seldom used on her before. Dismissal, yes, disdain, absolutely, but never this sort of focused calculation, as if she were an equal he was attempting to feel out for alliances. Then the look was gone and replaced by something old and worn. Her turned away from her and went back to his chair, sitting in it heavily. He took his time and leaned onto his blotter with laced fingers. Her heart sank – it was the sort of posture men took when they were about to regret being unhelpful and condescending.

“What I’m about to tell you is classified and has never been intended for public knowledge. I trust that you will treat the sanctity of this information with the respect that demands.” 

His eyes flicked to hers in a glare and after a moment she realized he was waiting on her. She nodded dumbly, shocked to her bones by his choice, and he sighed and continued.

“Lieutenant Reid wasn’t at Normandy during the initial invasion, though he may have told you he was.”

“He… never said where he was. He was always circumspect about his location and what he was doing in his letters. We worked around that,” she said quietly.

Hotchner nodded almost approvingly. “Very few officers knew the entire scope of the Normandy offensive, or how it fits into the larger concerns of the Allied forces. Embargoed information is key to our operations – it always has been – but due to my position here in Intelligence and my management of the information coming in and out of France, I have been privy to more than most.”

He ran a thumb across his lips, like a small gesture of continuing doubt.

“So, when Reid came to me with yet another plan to act upon the intelligence he’d uncovered about the enemy war camps… I assume he told you about them?”

Emily nodded.

“Well, I knew he wasn’t going to let this go. I shined him on about it hoping he’d let it drop, but you can’t hide the truth forever, and he was becoming a little insubordinate about it all. I knew it would only fester in him if I didn’t give it an outlet.”

“Wait… the war camps _are real?_ ” Emily gasped. “He was right?”

Hotchner’s gaze turned grim and he nodded ever so slightly. “It’s rarely discussed because, operationally, we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet. Personally, I think the idea is so frightening that many don’t have the stomach to contemplate such a thing.”

“But… you KNOW it’s happening! Why isn’t there anything being done to stop it?!”

Hotchner raised his hand and Emily fell quiet again, a little chastened by his small gesture.

“I cannot and will not discuss that with you, Technical Sergeant, so please don’t raise your voice or I will have you escorted from here without the answers you seek. This information is tangential to Reid’s situation at best, so… let it go.”

She huffed and glared at him, but, god help her, she kept quiet for Spencer’s sake.

“Now, when Reid came to see me with his plan to assess the war camp intelligence with the French Resistance, I offered him something that would satisfy his determination but also serve the Normandy offensive. He was reassigned to an SAS unit working with the Resistance ahead of the invasion date. The mission was called Plan Vert, and it was part of a cluster of covert initiatives we ran with the Resistance. Once he had the particulars, Reid was eager to be of help.”

“What did Plan Vert entail?” she asked haltingly, not sure that she wanted to know. Spencer had mentioned killing…

“Their directive was to destroy rail lines leading from Germany to Normandy. To prevent troop re-enforcement once the invasion was underway, you see. Reid’s doctorate in engineering, his intelligence contacts and covert experience, and his fluency in French made him a good fit, even if his combat skills were lacking. But he came to me so close to the invasion date, the initiative was already underway when I sent him to join them. He had to jump right into it with both feet.”

Emily thought about that final phone call and wished that Spencer could’ve been more open about what he’d decided to do. She didn’t know how she would’ve reacted, but it might have been better than what happened.

“Reid’s intelligence contacts suggested that the Nazis are moving prisoners to the war camps via rail, so… this choice was no doubt personal for him,” Hotchner added quietly, watching her with intent. Emily nodded, though she didn’t know what she was agreeing to.

“Once he left, communications were scattered, but the few I received from him indicated that his cell were extremely efficient at their task. I should’ve expected no less – he’s always been a skilled explosives man…”

Explosives man? She’d never once heard Spencer talk about bombs. She had an uncomfortable sensation that there was a whole part of him she’d never known, that he hid from her purposefully.

“His efforts were invaluable when June 6th rolled around,” Hotchner smiled a little, and then it slowly faded from him as his eyes glanced back to her and he slipped on his senior officer façade once more. “On June 3rd he and his cell were set up on one of their final targets. They were destroying a rail bridge that would force the Germans to take a road forty miles out of their way to reach the Normandy beaches. But their intelligence was off. As they were about to blow the bridge they saw a train heading for them. If it was a troop train, they would’ve blown the bridge anyway – they’d done that before. But the spotter said this train had civilians on it. The explosives were timed but could’ve been blown manually as well. They decided to hold off on detention, but Reid realized the train wouldn’t clear the tracks before the timers went off.”

Hotchner stopped and Emily felt nauseated again. She closed her eyes and swallowed. _You need to hear this._

“Go on,” she said.

“He went to disarm the detonators,” Hotchner continued quietly. “If the spotter on the far side had helped him, they might have been fine.”

Emily breathed in again. _Just breathe…_

“But Reid had to get to all of them, and by the time he’d run the length of the bridge to the far side, the train was very close. Still, he managed to detach the final device and run clear of the train. There wasn’t time to deactivate the final timer, so he threw the bomb into the gorge away from the train. It detonated too close to him.” 

Emily shivered and stared blankly at Hotchner’s desk. It was the only reaction she would allow herself, because anything else would lead to a complete loss of herself.

“He was very seriously wounded,” Hotchner murmured.

Emily straightened. Wounded?

“A couple of Resistance men got him to a field hospital, but he was in bad shape. He got transferred to a few locations until they found a surgical unit capable of handling him.”

Emily blinked so hard that her view of Hotchner stuttered dramatically. “So… where did he die then? If not…” She couldn’t finish the rest.

“That’s the point I’m making, Technical Sergeant,” Hotchner leaned forward, expression turning upset for a split-second. “To my knowledge, he isn’t dead. I don’t… I don’t understand this…” He waved his hand over the letters. “It’s a military hospital. I’d have been notified.”

Even though her whole body had simultaneously shut down, her mouth kept up the good fight.

“… I beg… I beg your pardon?” she whispered.

“The last I heard,” Hotchner said clearly. “Lieutenant Reid was alive in a hospital in France.”

She cramped everywhere, her muscles coming alive with such urgency that they didn’t know where or how to move in coordination. She gasped as it sunk in, and then she stood too quickly.

“It’s August. This happened in early June. Why hasn’t he been brought back?” she growled, and Hotchner’s eyebrows popped as he sat back in his chair.

“It’s not so easy to extract wounded from an active theater, Technical Sergeant,” he growled back. “The transports are filled with boys from the Normandy push. Both transportation and timely communication are sparse at the moment. Reid is receiving the best critical care possible in France. He’s well back from the conflict, and the location is an Allied holding area, so it’s quite secure, I assure you.”

“Forgive me but I will not take your assurance, Lieutenant-Colonel. I have been left without word for two months, and I have been erroneously informed that he’s dead, so… I’m not gonna rest easy in any assumptions at this point.” She crossed her arms and gave him another glare. Screw these uniformed parrots and their shoddy attempts at appeasement. “Where is he, and when are you bringing him home?”

Hotchner sighed. “He can’t be transported easily. His injuries are… severe.”

“How severe?”

“I’m told they are… debilitating. They would like to do additional surgeries but don’t have the qualified staff for it.” Hotchner raised a hand to stop her next question in its tracks. “He’s stable, or so I was told. Stability is the focus of any field hospital. Specialized care will have to come later.”

Emily sighed loudly, making sure to express how infuriated she was by this process.

“Where is he?” she enunciated crisply.

“A town near La Rochelle, on the coast.”

“Fine,” she straightened as tall as she could, becoming the fiercest version of her Mother in the blink of an eye. “I want you to arrange a transport to get me there. The sooner the better.”

“Absolutely out of the question,” Hotchner shook his head and stood as well, his official scowl back in place. “It’s simply not possible.”

“If you can get troops there as a staging ground, then you can get me there as well. There’s no difference.”

“WACs do not go into active theaters, period,” he growled. “And even if it were possible, you aren’t under my command – I couldn’t authorize it even if I wanted to.”

“Lieutenant-Colonel,” she stepped forwardly sharply, no longer feeling weak or sick, just itching with every fiber of her being to be moving instead. “I deeply appreciate the rules you’ve bent for me today in this office. I am not blind to the regulations and responsibilities that our uniforms bind us to. But I do not think you have the vaguest notion of the power of the thing that drove me here today, and that this news has just soaked that in petrol and lit it on fire. I am going to Spencer, just as he would come to me if our positions were reversed. Nothing would stop him, and nothing will stop me.”

Hotchner glared and opened his mouth, but Emily rolled right over him.

“I have forty hours flight instruction, sir. It’s the minimum to apply for a pilot’s license. If you don’t help me get on a transport, I will steal a plane and go find him on my own. It can’t be too difficult to locate a military staging area even from ten thousand feet. If Spencer told you anything about me it would be that my stubbornness gives him fits, and he wouldn’t approve of me threatening you at all. But I have no choice.” She stood there, vibrating furiously, and took a breath. “This would be considerably easier and less illegal if you chose to help me, sir.”

Hotchner spend a cold thirty seconds looking her over, and she wasn’t at all certain that her next stop wasn’t the local stockade. “You two are certainly a pair,” he muttered. “Are you currently AWOL?”

“What?” she stumbled.

“That is not an answer to a question, Technical Sergeant,” he barked, and it rang off the office walls making her jump. “Are you Absent Without Leave at the moment? Because if you are, you are going straight back to your commanding officer via the MPs. I am not fostering insubordination in any form, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” she said nervously, then shook her head. “I mean, yes, sir, I understand, but no, sir, I am not AWOL. My CO gave me a fortnight’s leave.”

Hotchner gave her a look that could draw blood. “Report back here at 06:00, Technical Sergeant, and wear something you don’t mind ruining. That is all. You are dismissed.”

Emily blinked at him. Did that mean he’d help? Was he really going to take on the responsibility of inserting the first WAC into an active war zone? His look got stormy and it snapped her out of her gaze. It was best to contemplate this somewhere else. She saluted and turned for the door.

“Technical Sergeant,” he waited for her to face him again. “Don’t you dare threaten me ever again.”

“Y-yes, sir.” 

Then she slipped from his office as quickly as possible, grateful that she never took no for an answer and that no matter how powerful the superior, most people were afraid of those who refused the status quo.

\---- 

She met Hotchner bright and early only to find him in a combat uniform and carrying a duffel of his own. He saw her curious look and gave her a deadpanned one back.

“You didn’t expect to go unescorted, did you?”

“Oh, uh… sir…”

“It’s my ass on the line, Technical Sergeant, and I’m not trusting it to your good intentions.” He brushed past her and she followed, having no choice in the matter.

Well, this was going to be awkward.

The Lieutenant-Colonel’s bat man drove them to the Croughton air field and to a waiting C-47 Skytrain that looked shinier than a new penny. Emily glanced around to see the mechanic who loved it so much, but no one stuck out from the grounds crew.

“Problem, Technical Sergeant?” Hotchner hopped out of the jeep and lobbed his duffel over his shoulder.

“No, sir. She’s just a pretty bird, is all. The C-47s we work on are battered to hell.”

Hotchner smirked for the first time in their limited acquaintance. Emily followed him and hopped up into the belly of the Skytrain, strapping in next to him inside.

“We have a top-notch mechanical crew here,” Hotchner boasted. She didn’t think he did it often – he seemed unpracticed at it. “But I hear you’re no slouch with a socket wrench either.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“I talked with your CO yesterday after you left. Sergeant Milgrew. Wanted to make sure you weren’t lying about your leave.”

She shrugged. She didn’t begrudge him the lack of trust, especially after she’d made a grand show of thumbing her nose at every regulation separating her from Spencer.

“He had nothing but praise for your skills as a mechanic.”

Emily’s eyebrows rose.

“He had several choice words for your value as a person, however.”

Her eyebrows descended again. Milgrew would always remain true to form.

“He must be hard to work under,” Hotchner watched her carefully as the C-47 began to shake and rattle its way down the runway.

“It is what it is, sir. You don’t get to choose who you work with. Nothing I haven’t faced before.”

The plane hopped and then took off, the rattling easing tremendously as it pulled up sharply to its cruising altitude. Emily’s stomach rolled uncomfortably, and she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and swallowed until the feeling subsided.

“That’s an odd reaction for a pilot. Do you do that every time you take off?”

“My stomach’s been off since I got the news about Spencer. It’s nothing serious, sir.”

Hotchner watched her for a moment. “Perhaps it’s just nerves now. If it persists, we can get the doctors in La Rochelle to look at you. Fix you right up.”

“I appreciate that but there’s nothing for it, sir,” she looked away from him to the supplies in the hold. “I’ll get in front of it in time.”

“Hmmmm,” Hotchner intoned beside her. Then he shuffled around until he pulled her letters from his duffel. “Here. You forgot these in my office. He might want to read them.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, holding the bundle with gentle hands. “I still don’t know why they came back if…”

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” he said back softly, but with an air that suggested speculation was a waste of time.

He fell silent and it wasn’t exactly comfortable. Emily glanced around at the contents of the hold. It was only half full, and it all seemed like dry goods and sealed shipping containers. They were the only passengers.

“Where are we going? I assume it’s not directly to La Rochelle.”

“A supply drop to a city further down the coast. Mostly rations and basic medical gear for their M.A.S.H. unit. We’ll get ground transport to La Rochelle from there.”

He paused for another minute and then began again.

“I did not recognize you immediately yesterday. But I’ve seen you before.”

Emily looked at him strangely. “We’ve never met, sir.”

“No, we haven’t, but Reid carries a picture of you. I saw him with it once. You and a motorcycle.”

Emily smiled briefly. She’d forgotten about that photo, and she missed Betty.

“I remember I commented that I didn’t know the army had gotten into the pin-up game. I embarrassed him badly, I’m afraid,” Hotchner smiled, but only a little. “I apologize, Technical Sergeant. It was a crass thing to say, and given what little I’ve learned of you since then, I regret the dismissal. Reid was very defensive about it at the time. I should’ve picked up on it then that you were more than just eye candy to him.”

“Oh, uh… we were just friends then…” she said, a little thrown off by the subject. “And there’s no need to apologize. Women are seen that way if they are even half-way attractive. You learn to accept it.”

“My wife would never stand for such behavior from me, so the apology remains. I’ve let myself slip in her absence. She’d read me the riot act if she knew.”

Emily looked at his hands and saw no ring.

“Is she stateside, sir?”

“No, she’s gone,” he said simply.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, sir.”

“It was a long time ago. Before the war. Sometimes I think it’s a blessing. She would’ve been so angry at all of this.” He waved a hand around the C-47.

“The war?”

“The fact that we all let it come to war in the first place. She’d have been apoplectic at the waste of time and energy when it could’ve been avoided if we’d just paid attention to the things that happened before.”

Emily was confused and when he looked at her, he must have seen it.

“She was a history professor. The smartest woman I ever knew. She had an ungovernable mouth though. It got her into all kinds of trouble. She used to say that’s why she married me – to have someone to hold her back, or, failing that, bail money at the ready.”

He chuckled then, and despite her unease and worry, she found herself chuckling with him.

“Both you and Reid remind me of her a little, in different ways,” he said as the laughter petered out.

“Oh, umm…” She felt slightly uncomfortable. Hotchner turned to face her more directly even though his harness fought him on it.

“I hope you don’t mind me speaking so plainly, Technical Sergeant, but… I’m concerned you might not be prepared for what you’ll find in France.”

“If it’s the danger that worries you, sir-”

“It’s _him_ , Prentiss.” His stare gave her no place to hide from him. “The last update I received said… I don’t want to use the word ‘difficult’ but… he’s being obstinate about his treatment. And he’s lashed out a few times at the staff.”

Emily felt that settle into her like a chill down her spine. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

Hotchner nodded slowly, keeping her gaze. “That’s why I want you to be prepared. He may not be the man who left you. He might need a lot of fixing.”

Emily gritted her teeth against the sudden flash of panic ripping through her system, the way it sped her heart up and soured her belly. She rubbed her stomach absently and blinked back the fear that she couldn’t do this.

“I’m a fixer, sir,” she said quietly. 

“I hope so, Technical Sergeant,” he said eventually.

“You know, the title is quite a mouthful, sir. Perhaps, if it doesn’t violate any regulations, you could just call me Prentiss.”

Hotchner’s eyes warmed, though he didn’t favor her with a smile. “It’s no more awkward than Lieutenant-Colonel. But I will call you Prentiss if you call me Hotch. Most of the men under my command do.”

“All right, sir. It’s a deal.” 

She smiled, and he flicked one back briefly before it disappeared. Then he faced the side of the transport and leaned into the harness, his eyes slipping closed.

“It’ll take a while to reach the landing site. Then there won’t be much time to rest. Try to get some now, Prentiss.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, but try as she might, sleep wouldn’t come.

\---- 

Emily wasn’t sure what she expected to see in France, but what met her wasn’t it. The ride from the landing zone to La Rochelle took them through half-ruined villages and past fields green with summer crops. Even in the areas that were scorched by bombs or battle scars, people picked through the wastes, clearing the streets and making do with makeshift _everything_ as if the war was simply inconvenient. She felt Hotchner watching her from time to time and wondered why he found her reactions so interesting, even though he rarely asked about them.

“I’ve never been to France before,” she said absently as they sped through another village where children in short pants waved at them as they whizzed by. “It’s not how I imagined it.”

“That’s to be expected,” Hotch agreed.

“No, I mean – I expected the ruin. I thought it would look like parts of London, you know? The bombed-out buildings, the privations… But I didn’t expect all of this…”

“All of what?”

“This… _life_. Everywhere.” She waved at a little boy with glasses at the edge of a village as they left it behind. He smiled and yelled something happy in French as they passed, but it was lost to the sound of the jeep on the road.

“You can’t stop life,” Hotch mumbled. When she glanced back at him he was focused on the road ahead with the standard frown that he wore. He was often impossible to read. “Though we’ve tried our best in recent years.”

She didn’t have anything to say to that, and they remained quiet for the rest of their journey.

La Rochelle was a hub of activity, every branch of service represented in the enclaves surrounding the coastal town. The place itself was mostly intact, the locals busy going about their business and ignoring the influx of military as if they were used to it. The hospital surprised her – she had expected an expanded M.A.S.H. unit – something substantial but temporary. But it was an elegant, old building with extensive grounds. There were religious statues set into the outer walls, and smooth, curved arches over the gated entry, and gardens still fighting for space against the endless flow of feet.

“It was a nunnery once,” Hotch commented as they came to the gates, and that suddenly made sense to her as she saw the nurses darting about with obvious crucifixes under their aprons. Hotch turned to her suddenly and looked her over. “Do you speak French?”

“Not well.”

He nodded. “Okay. I’m going to go hunt down the surgeon-on-duty. It could take a few minutes. They tend to be run off their feet most days. Perhaps it’s best if you wait for me out here. I won’t be long.” He watched her critically for a moment. “How are you doing?”

Emily blinked, realizing that she’d more or less shut down when their journey began. She hadn’t slept at all, and barely choked down some cheese and hard bread when they landed. Her only thought had been _getting here_ , but now that she was confused and beginning to feel the tendrils of fear snake through her again.

“I don’t know, sir,” she admitted, and then blushed at the honesty. She really didn’t know him well enough for that. Hotch laid a hand lightly on her shoulder and she looked up.

“I tell my men before a conflict, not to anticipate anything but instead be very observant. Let things unfold and react as best you can to them. Most things are beyond our control anyway.”

She wasn’t sure if he’d meant that to be comforting, but it didn’t quite hit the mark if he had. Spencer wasn’t an enemy to be beaten. She nodded anyway, and tried for a smile, then he strode into the hospital and left her there. She felt stupid standing at the base of the entrance steps, being in the way of people who were coming and going. Most looked her over curiously as they passed, perhaps wondering if the slightly lost-looking woman in overalls was a local girl waiting for news. She self-consciously shuffled out of the flow and towards an alcove that contained a damaged statue of the Virgin Mary benevolently looking down at the infant in her arms. But her face was gone, and the baby Jesus had lost one of his feet. Her gut tightened, and she let the shivering that usually accompanied that have her for a moment. She wasn’t a person of faith, but it was hard not to find comfort in the sight of a mother nurturing a child. It was universal, and she desperately wanted some of that grace in this moment. Her stomach lurched again, testing her, but she leaned against the alcove edge and tried to calm herself, not anticipating, like Hotch suggested.

She glanced to her feet and saw the remains of a mangled rose bush, half of it brown and curled around the few branches that still thrived. The blooms were small and frail, starved for water and nutrients from the packed earth under her. But they were a vibrant shout of red in the dust and limestone, and she smiled a little as she gently cupped one in her fingers. They reminded her of the weeds Spencer had given her the day they first met in London. Mangy flowers he’d stolen from someone’s garden. His smile that day, the careful diffidence he’d offered her as they strolled through the city, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm… Her vision blurred and then she suddenly gagged harshly, bending forward in case she couldn’t marshal herself enough to keep her meal down. Her fingers left the rose and clasped the alcove frame instead, wondering if it would be better to give into it and be empty for the moments to come instead.

“Mademoiselle? Êtes-vous malade?”

Emily glanced up and saw a middle-aged woman walking to the alcove. She wore a nurse’s apron. Before she knew it, the woman’s hand was on Emily’s back rubbing light circles to soothe her. Emily tried to stand straight and wave her away, but she gagged again, and the nurse came to face her, bracing her with both hands.

“Viens avec moi. Nous allons trouver un médecin pour vous.”

“No, no…” Emily tried to grimace and remember her French. “Rien… Ce n'est rien.”

“C'est quelque chose,” the nurse gave her a sympathetic but serious look. Her hands rubbed Emily’s arms, and she had to admit, it felt comforting.

“Honestly, there’s nothing to be done,” Emily said quickly, and then shook her head. “Désolé, mon français n'est pas bon.”

The nurse nodded in understanding. “American?” 

Emily smiled thinly. “It shows, huh?” Then her stomach hitched, and her hand went to her abdomen and rubbed it absently. The nurse watched her, and her mouth thinned in concentration. Then she glanced back at Emily with a knowing warmth in her expression.

“Combien de mois?” she asked quietly.

Emily froze where she leaned against the alcove. She understood the question but acted as if she didn’t. _How many months?_ She just shook her head instead, blood roaring in her ears. _I can’t talk about this now…_ The nurse seemed to understand more than she let on, and she responded by smiling and pulling Emily against her for a hug. Emily went willingly, shocked by how easily she fell against a stranger and felt assured. The nurse held her and rubbed circles into her back, rocking her slightly as she would a tired child, and suddenly, Emily felt deeply tired. This had the possibility of taking more than she had, and she didn’t know if she was built for that. She curled her arms around the nurse and thought, hysterically, she might cry, but the rocking and the soothing edged her panic back and Emily pulled away feeling calmer than she had in months. She was amazed how the understanding of a stranger cut boundaries apart so gracefully.

“Merci,” she whispered, ducking her head in respect.

The nurse continued smiling as if the heat of the day lived inside her. Her hands clasped Emily’s gently as she shrugged away the thanks.

“Rappelez-vous, mademoiselle…” she hesitated as her eyes shifted to the side and she concentrated. “Life is beautiful,” she grinned at her English, and Emily’s shock when she heard it. “Even… dans la guerre.”

Emily laughed a little, face warm from the sun, or the wonder of this small connection, she wasn’t certain. Then the nurse released her and patted her cheek as she stepped back carefully around the roses.

“Bonne chance, mademoiselle.”

Emily collected herself a moment longer at the feet of the Madonna, blinking until her vision was sharp and clear. Then she returned to the hospital entrance and waited for Hotch. When he reappeared, he glanced at her with concern.

“You alright? You’re flushed.”

“I’ll be fine,” she murmured and looked expectantly at the harried, balding gentleman who accompanied him, wearing a grey smock and smoking furiously.

“This is Dr. Gaudreau. He’s head surgeon here.” Hotch looked at Gaudreau. “C'est la fiancée de Reid, Mademoiselle Prentiss. S'il vous plaît parler en anglais lorsque cela est possible.”

Dr. Gaudreau nodded and stubbed out his cigarette with a swirl of smoke and a small ‘ah’. He turned to Emily. 

“Mademoiselle, what do you know already?” Gaudreau asked in heavily-accented English.

“Nothing, other than he’s here. He _is_ still here, isn’t he?”

“Oui, oui, il est là,” he nodded, expression going blank and impossible to guess at. Emily swallowed reflexively, almost anticipating the sickness to wash over her once more, but it didn’t happen, and she hardened herself against the rest of it.

“He came here with severe wounds from an explosion. The damage was… how do you say _double_?” Gaudreau glanced at Hotch. Hotch just nodded back, and the doctor shrugged and continued.

“First, his organs were… ah… bruised by the blast. Force de commotion…” Gaudreau wiggled his hands back and forth violently, and then caught himself. “Sorry…”

“It’s fine. I understand,” Emily said a little impatiently. “Please continue.”

“Ah… alors… this is already healing. There is pain, but he heals. The second damage is to his back. His spine. When he turned from the blast there was much shrapnel from the cliff. Pieces are in the spine. They block the nerves. Understand?”

Emily looked between him and Hotch and shrugged breathlessly. Gaudreau sighed.

“He feels nothing.” Gaudreau made a cutting motion at his waist and then pointed down.

“He’s paralyzed from the waist down, Prentiss,” Hotch clarified as gently as he could. Emily looked at him, hardly daring to move, and then Hotch’s neutral mask broke into something sorrowful, and Emily knew it was true. There was a terrible moment when no one said anything, and Emily just stared at her boots. Then Gaudreau cleared his throat and went on.

“If the pieces are removed, he might heal from that as well.”

Emily’s head shot up. “Then why hasn’t that been done?”

Hotch stepped forward and raised a hand towards Gaudreau. “If I may, Doctor?” Gaudreau nodded.

“Prentiss, from what I’ve been told, the procedure is difficult and precise. Spinal surgery is something few physicians will try – certainly none at this hospital. There are a few specialists, mostly in the States, but it’s a Hail Mary option. The primary reason it’s not done is because the procedure has a lot of risk, including worsening paralysis, post-operative infection, and a daunting mortality rate. Is that correct, Doctor?”

“Oui.”

“But… if the shrapnel were removed, he could get his legs back? Walk again?” Her chest seized until she almost choked the words out. Hotch gave her a sad look, while Gaudreau shook his head.

“Mademoiselle, it will never work. Do not hope for such a thing. It is cruel, and he is already so… fâché.”

“Angry,” Hotch translated.

“Oui. He will not talk, will not use the chair… I thought perhaps he did not understand-”

“He’s fluent in French,” Emily said absently, staring at the stone stairs leading up into the hospital.

“Monsieur Hotchner said so,” Gaudreau nodded, and then fumbled around for another cigarette, hanging it on his lips like an afterthought before lighting it. “Then we thought maybe it is the pain or the… problème mental…”

“Shellshock,” Hotch offered, but both he and Gaudreau shook their heads as they dismissed the thought.

“Non, I think it is something else.” Gaudreau looked at Emily through a wreath of smoke, tapping the ash off into the breeze. “Men wish to be men, non?”

Emily stared back, confused and adrift, no longer trying to parse the odd Frenchman and worrying instead about what sort of reaction she’d get from Spencer. She’d never gotten a handle on his angry side, and that frightened her now that it seemed to be most of what he was feeling. Suddenly, a terrible thought occurred to her.

“Do patients receive mail here? My letters were returned to me unopened. Was that the hospital’s decision?”

Gaudreau looked muddled and then dismissed it with a wave. “Why would we refuse mail? We are much too busy for such trivialités. La Poste works here as it does in England, mademoiselle, be assured.”

Hotch interrupted again, turning towards Emily and pretending Gaudreau wasn’t there.

“If you wish to see him, the Doctor can take you.”

“Of course, I wish to see him,” she said a little too sharply, even though she wasn’t sure. She was suddenly very afraid of seeing the man she loved and not recognizing him under his pain and fury.

“But are you ready, Prentiss?” Hotch said gently and raised an eyebrow at her. “He needs you the _right way_ now. Are you _right?_ ”

Emily swallowed down a dry throat. “I… I have to go. I need to see him. I…” She glanced away and stared at the seam of his jacket instead of him. Her hand brushed the front of her overalls without thinking. “I’m out of time.”

Hotch’s hand curled lightly around her arm, drawing her eyes back to him. The lines around them softened the way they did when he spoke of his wife. He sighed gently.

“Remember, read the terrain and make the best choices you can.”

She nodded and stepped away from him quickly, blinking at his words. Gaudreau gestured to the stairs with a nod and she was halfway up before she realized Hotch wasn’t behind her.

“You’re not coming?” she asked.

“There’s nothing he needs from me.” Hotch gave her a tiny smile that was more daunting than any of his scowls because it signaled how important he thought this moment was. “Go. I’ll wait for you here.”

Emily followed Gaudreau and his trail of smoke through the halls of the hospital. She was a mix of resigned, anxious, and a kind of emptiness that felt bottomless. Then she realized, with mild alarm, that she’d bypassed the joy of understanding he was alive altogether; she’d gone from pervasive grief to urgent necessity to anxious dread without any pitstops. And she had the terrible sensation that she was walking into a firing squad that everyone knew about but her. 

Gaudreau took them down a series of narrowing corridors until he stopped beside a door with frosted glass. 

“Is he… disfigured, Doctor?” she asked suddenly, wanting to be prepared enough to avoid flinching if she had to.

“Ah, non. The bruising is gone. The scars can’t be seen – his back, his legs… they are under things, oui?” Gaudreau looked at her and paused.

“Mademoiselle, the French believe in love very deeply. It is a… fierté nationale.”

 _National pride._ Emily nodded she understood.

“Healing requires love.” He paused again. “Lieutenant Reid can heal. Perhaps not as he wants – not his legs – but he can have a happy life. If he chooses to.”

Gaudreau rested a hand on the doorknob and seemed to mull over saying more. Then he pushed the door open and turned away, leaving her there. Emily took one final breath in and stepped through.

The room was small, sparse, and bright. It had probably been a nun’s cell before it was a hospital room. There were two beds, but only the furthest was occupied and the man in it was curved and thin, staring at the modest window and to the gardens beyond it without much interest. There was a wheelchair pushed into a corner, a tray of untouched food next to the bed, and a worn book forgotten in his lap, cover ratty and pages swollen with things tucked between them. His shirt hung loose on him, adding to the severity of his thinness, and his hair had grown out, now limp and piled haphazardly on his head as if he didn’t care for it. And he had a full beard, which wasn’t well-tended either. His glasses were unfamiliar to her, and one arm was taped to the heavy, black frames. His entire demeanor was of abandonment. 

She took a few steps in, but he didn’t notice. Then she found her voice.

“Spencer?”

His head turned slowly, like a man in a dream, and when his eyes landed on her, they widened so quickly that she almost thought he might have been sleeping. She walked until she made it to the foot of the bed, and his eyes followed every step with painful focus. When she was closer, she saw how pale he was, how deep the shadows under his eyes were, and it was a physical hurt that she had to swallow down and try to ignore. He did nothing for a long moment but just watch her, with his hands tightening around the book in his lap. And then his astonishment fell away into a glare.

“What are you doing here?” His body seemed frail, but his voice was sharp, and it echoed off the hard walls of the room like he hoped it would batter her. “How in God’s name did you get into France?”

Her head snapped back before she could stop herself, and she smoothed her hands across her overalls and breathed to get a handle on her reaction.

“Hotch brought me. We took a transport from Croughton-”

“ _Hotch?_ You’re pals with my CO now?” His expression became thunderous. “I thought the man had more sense than that. Tell him to take you back. Today if he can manage it.”

“I’m not leaving, Spencer.”

“Oh yes, you are,” he hissed. “This is no place for you.”

“I’m pretty sure I get to decide that, not you.”

“Emily, I heard shelling last night. It couldn’t have been more than ten miles away.”

“I’m not afraid of shelling-”

“Well, you damnwell should be!” he bellowed, and she did jump back at that. He’d never yelled at her before. It stung her eyes as if he’d slapped her across the face, and she blinked hard to make sure nothing else showed on her about how he frightened her. “For once in your precious, sheltered existence, do as you’re told. Go back to England and fiddling with your planes. You’re less than useless here.”

She breathed through her mouth and fought not to hurl something back to take the sting out of the chunk he’d just ripped out of her. The belittlement took her breath away.

“That’s not true. I’m here to help you.”

He laughed at her then, actually laughed. His face transforming into a mocking rictus that she found shockingly ugly on him.

“Didn’t they tell you? There’s shrapnel in my spine blocking nerve signals to my lower body. There’s no ‘help’ for that, Emily.”

“That’s not what the doctor told me. He said there’s a procedure-”

“To get the shrapnel out? Yeah, there is. But did he tell you the success rate? It’s less than ten percent.” He twisted in the bed and winced, forcing himself back to his previous position. She stepped closer and he glared at her, silently telling her she’d be in a new world of trouble if she got any closer. “Most patients die on the table, or shortly afterwards. I read the research. Did he tell you that, or did you decide not to listen to it? Because the only way I matter is if I am whole, right?”

“Spencer, c’mon. That’s not what I meant-”

“But it is, Emily. Don’t lie to yourself about that. No one wants a goddamned cripple when there’s a chance for something better. I won’t get better – you can’t fix me, Em, so stop pretending you’re fine with what’s left. I’m done. I tried to make it easy on you with the letters-”

“Oh, so _you_ marked the letters ‘addressee deceased’ and thought you were doing me a huge, fucking favor?” she snapped hard, and had a second of satisfaction when it caused him to blink in shock before he slid back into anger. “You’re a coward, Spencer. Or is there shrapnel blocking signals to your heart as well?”

He was silent for a terrible moment where his face went scarlet. Then he detonated.

“I said, I’m _done._ ” He enunciated every word with venom. “It’s over. I no longer wish to marry you, so there’s no reason for you to stay. It’s a shame you came all this way for that, but you only have yourself to blame.”

Emily staggered back a step, not realizing she’d done it until worry flicked across his face. Her stomach threatened, and she brushed her abdomen gently. _There’s no place for that now…_

“I don’t believe a word of that, Spence. Not one damned word. You don’t feel the way we do and just _stop_ one day.” Her voice came out softer than she wanted, and she hated herself a little for that. He needed her to fight for him, not collapse like a wet bag the moment he barked at her. “I came for you the moment I discovered the letters were a lie. I was scared, but I came. And do you know why? Because you’re my best friend, and I knew you’d be scared as well. I couldn’t stand that, and there’s no reason for it. Not when we’re stronger together. I would’ve run across France if I had to.” 

His expression got complicated and then he put it all away under a bland mask that gave her nothing.

“I promised you my whole life, Spencer. I gave my word. I didn’t promise only if it were easy. What sort of friend would I be if I didn’t stick around for the hard stuff as well?”

His eyes went cold almost instantly, and her gut dropped. She’d said the wrong thing, somehow. She didn’t know what, but it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

“I don’t want you here, and I don’t want you to come back,” he said quietly. “The affair was memorable – I thank you for that – but there’s no future in this, so let’s not draw out the end in an unseemly way. This was never going to last – in our hearts we both knew that. It’s time for you to go, Emily. Just… go.”

“Spence…” she blinked, and her voice gave out as she stared at him. It didn’t matter; she didn’t know what else to say. He stared back, a bent, sharp-edged shell of the man she knew, and clutched his book close. Eventually, he just sighed as if she were dim-witted.

“Just go, Em,” he said quietly.

She felt like she didn’t have a choice but to comply. Maybe it was the lack of rest. Maybe it was the sting of his rage that she had no experience with, and therefore no weapons to battle against it. But she turned numbly and walked away like he’d asked. She didn’t even say goodbye.

She didn’t know how she found her way out of the hospital again. No one asked her where she was headed, and people jostled her when she got in their way. When the sun hit her face, she felt a hand on her arm and looked down. Hotch was sitting on the entrance steps looking up at her with worry.

“Prentiss, did you hear me?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“I asked how it went.”

“Oh.”

Her answer was to stand there as long as her legs could bear, and then she folded down onto the step next to him when her body suddenly gave up. His grip didn’t falter, still holding her steady as she looked forward into the street without feeling. Maybe that wasn’t so bad; feeling was overrated. She leaned into her hands, bracing her elbows on her knees and breaking their connection. Her stomach rolled as an afterthought, and her eyes got hot behind her palms.

_Jesus, what now? What the hell am I supposed to do now?_

“Emily?” Hotch tried again gently. She just shook her head and hitched as she gulped it all back down. But she didn’t make a sound.

In time, Hotch leaned his shoulder into hers, the heat of the day thrumming through him and making her sticky. But she was glad of him and his silence beside her, glad that he had no questions and no trite conclusions. They sat on those steps and watched the day pass in front of them. It was all either of them could do.

\---- 

She slept only because her body couldn’t sustain wakefulness any longer. But it was brief, and when she woke her path had narrowed to a single set of footprints in front of her. She found Hotch in the mess tent at the heart of the staging area, black coffee and runny eggs in front of him. It was early and there was almost no one around yet.

“I’m going back to the hospital,” she told him without preamble. He sipped his coffee and didn’t look the least bit surprised. “I know we’re leaving today. Can the transport be delayed a few hours?”

“No. But we can catch another one.” He played with his eggs. She seriously doubted he was going to eat them.

“Really?”

He just nodded and watched the mess cooks doing their work. “Tell him he’s a jackass for me, will you?”

She almost smiled, but he missed it entirely. “Will do, sir.”

\---- 

Emily walked back into that hospital acting as the most prepossessed version of herself as she could manage. Her traveling dress had been in her duffel, and though it was wrinkled and a little plain, it was the most elegant thing she had with her. She did her hair, hid her worry lines under some artful make-up, slipped on her heels and set off to war. While she’d waited for sleep the night before, she ran over every word of her scene with Spencer, and she thought she understood the mistake she’d made. She formulated a plan after that, and then practiced it until she fell asleep. She would give it everything she had, and if he rejected her, well, she’d form a new plan for life without him. It had to be as practical as that, no matter how it scarred her.

She strode into his room without knocking, and his head darted up from where he was staring at the same battered book from the day before. His mouth dropped open in surprise, and he hastily shoved something between the pages, and then wiped at his eyes behind his broken glasses. When she rounded the bed and pulled out an abandoned chair to sit next to him without an invitation, he stared at her, openly shocked and unsettled. _Good,_ she thought. It was a small advantage.

“W-what are you doing here?” he stumbled. His eyes were red against his pale skin, magnified horribly by his glasses.

“We’re leaving today,” she said calmly, smoothing her skirt across her legs. “But there’s still a couple of things to take care of. Firstly…”

She opened her handbag and found what she was looking for. Pulling the ring free, she held it in the light for a second, using all of her focus to keep her hand steady. Then she slid it along the table next to his bed, and neatly snapped her bag closed again. All business.

“I wanted to return this to you. In all that happened yesterday, well… I got flustered and forgot. But it’s yours and you should have it back. Maybe, someday, you’ll find someone you want to give it to. You never know.”

His eyes were riveted to the ring, looking at it as if it were a knife or a gun – something sent to kill him. His throat bobbed slowly, and his mouth hung open, but he said nothing and never glanced away. She nodded even though he didn’t see it and moved on.

“Now that’s finished, it leads me to my second task. It isn’t so much of a task, really, as it is a request.”

His eyes found hers when she paused meaningfully. The anger from yesterday wasn’t there, only a wan desolation that made her wonder if she was already too late. Her stomach twisted in warning, and her hand tightened on her handbag in a gesture of imagined control over it.

“Spencer, my request is that you listen to me now. As a friend. Since our engagement is off, and we may never meet again after today… will you listen to my advice one last time? Openly and with consideration?”

She waited and watched as he swallowed hard again under his scruffy beard. He blinked at her slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if he was awake or not, then he squeezed his book in his hands and nodded back to her.

“I will,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and meant it, fidgeting a little to cover the shiver of relief that ran through her. “I want you to know that I heard everything you said yesterday and took it with me. I thought about it a great deal afterwards, as you might expect. And I know you’re angry. I may not understand what you are feeling, but the anger is obvious. Perhaps it was silly of me to think that my presence could solve that.”

His fingers tensed around his book until the joints turned pale from the strain.

“But something Dr. Gaudreau said stuck with me. He said, ‘men wish to be men’. I dismissed the comment because it assumed that you were like all other men, and I’ve never found that to be true at all.” 

She glanced up at him and found him staring at her, expressionless but listening, as he promised.

“And then you said, ‘I’m done’. In the moment, I thought you were talking about us, but now I’m not so sure. I think you meant that your life was done because you lost your legs.”

He didn’t acknowledge this, just continued watching her carefully instead.

“It probably gives you no comfort when I say that I suspect many men who find themselves like this,” she gestured to the blankets hiding his damage, and it was the first time he looked away from her, following her hand. “Think that their lives are over. It’s probably common. At least, common enough that the doctor thought to mention it.”

Spencer’s eyes drifted back as his mouth closed into a tight line of misery.

“The point is, he may have been right in a general sense – that you wish to be capable and independent – but he was wrong when he assumed that you were an average man, and that those qualities in you were physical.”

For the first time, his expression changed; he looked confused.

“Spencer, your value has nothing to do with these.” She shuffled closer and gently laid her hand next to his legs. He twitched his book closer to him, and it was probably all he could do to show his discomfort as his lower half lay inert. She waited for him to still, and then she slowly lifted her hand from the bed and leaned in until she could brush his temple with her fingers. His eyes went wide in shock, but he didn’t shift away.

“You value is here.” She stroked her fingers through his untended curls, and then she gently dropped her hand again until she rested her palm over his chest, his heart pulsing quickly under her fingertips. “And your value is here. You don’t need legs to be the kind of man you were meant to be.”

He made a terrible sound then. A moan sucked back into his chest and clamped off painfully, as he refused to let it free. He just stared at her fiercely and began to vibrate under her hand. And she had the sudden realization that he was terrified – this quiet, controlled collapse was fear, but fear that he was so familiar with, he’d developed a way to direct it. She blinked as that sunk in, that he’d been afraid so often he’d learned how to survive it, like packing away his horrors, as he once told her.

She choked on her voice when she spoke again, hoping that she wasn’t just making everything worse.

“You’re twenty-three, Spencer. You have a long life ahead of you, and it all boils down to an important choice you have to make now.”

She held his eyes, palm still over his heart. Her gut lurched and her eyes stung, but she had the landing lined up and she was almost home.

“You can _choose_ to be angry about everything you’ve lost. You can thrash around in it, wrap it around you like a protective shell pushing the world away as your talents wither from neglect. Or you can _choose_ to move on and be who you were born to be. You told me once that you thought we all have a purpose, and that you thought yours was to be with me.”

He gasped a little. It was fractional, and she only noticed because she felt it through her hand.

“But I think your true purpose is to use your tremendous intellect and your big, whopping heart to help people. The way you helped Aline, and Millie, and those people on the train, and hundreds more that won’t be taking a Nazi train anywhere.” She took a deep breath in. “The way you helped me fly.”

His gaze dropped suddenly to the blanket and his curls flopped into his eyes. In his hands, the old book was curling under the pressure of his white-knuckled grip.

“There’s so much work for you to do, Spencer.” Her voice was wobbly and she couldn’t fix it. It hardly mattered; she was almost done. “It’d be a shame if you stopped being useful because of grief over something you didn’t really need in order to be great in the first place. You’re alive, Spence, and life is beautiful. There is hope everywhere, you just have to look for it – _you_ taught me that.”

He was shaking noticeably now, his body hitching with it and his curls vibrating. One hand suddenly left his book and ripped his glasses away, tossing them on the bed as he scrubbed at his eyes furiously. Some pages slid out of the book at the movement along with a photo. It was her and Betty from a time that seemed like distant memory. The photo was creased, the edges torn and watermarked, but she could still make out her sassy smile.

“I had to tell you… remind you of this before I left,” she said breathlessly, remembering when he was just words on a page, and how much those words meant to her then. “Because I think my purpose – the whole point of me – is to be here to help you in this moment. Maybe the love and… everything else was beside the point.” She gulped as her stomach rolled, but he looked up then and let her see his tears. 

“I think that’s the truth, because I’ve never been more sure about anything than what I’m saying right now.” She tried for a smile. “I feel as though I’m exactly who I was meant to be.”

“Emily…” he choked horribly, damp and broken, and then he surprised her, reaching out and grasping her close for a desperate kiss. She backed away a little when he let her, not knowing what to do or say to that. He closed his eyes and his face lined with shame as he dropped his head again. Her fingers curled on their own in his hospital smock.

“I’m so scared,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can do this without you…”

In a split-second her heart rammed itself into her throat and her gut clenched. She grasped his stubbled jaw and pulled his face to bump against hers as she scooted so close to the bed her knees knocked against the metal frame.

“You don’t have to,” she whispered back. “I’ll stay… I’ll help…”

He pulled up so he could look at her, his other hand grasping her jaw too urgently.

“But I don’t want you to, don’t you see?” His face creased with grief. “In my heart, you’re my wife, but I can never be your husband now. I’ll never walk beside you again, we’ll never dance… I’ll never… make love to you again…”

His eyes closed as he bowed his head away. Then he shook and returned to her.

“Instead there will be catheters and helping me wash myself. There will be wrestling me in and out of bed and a wheelchair. There will be helping me manage everything in the outside world because none of it can be negotiated alone without mobility. There will be thankless days when I hurt you because of my frustration and you’ll be a convenient target. And there will be burdens you can’t anticipate, and pressure to be a supporter, a carer, a counsellor for life…” His grip tightened around her even more. “I want _more_ for you than that! You should have passion and love and adventure… I don’t want you to turn into a full-time nurse or a roommate.”

“Who says that’s how it will be?” She dragged him by his smock until her mouth met his again. He moaned helplessly against it for a moment. “Yeah, things are gonna be pretty drastically altered. I’m not fooling myself about that. But don’t I get a say in this? Don’t you think we can make it… make it into something we want? What happened to the fella who told me we make our own fates?”

“Emily,” he sighed and rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll love you for the rest of my life. There’s no way around that. But think about what a life with me now _really_ means for you. There’s still time… you could… you could find someone. A Joe who can give you what I can’t…”

“Spencer,” she warned.

“No, really. Listen. An understanding fella who’d love you well. Who has a home, who could give you children-”

She rolled her eyes closed and sighed anxiously.

“I’m already pregnant,” she whispered.

He shuffled against her, and then his forehead and hands were gone. She opened her eyes and found him staring, white as a sheet and shaking. She began shaking too, and then her stomach heaved and she groaned softly, rubbing her belly to soothe it back. His eyes ripped from hers to her hand, and his mouth fell open.

“Three months,” she said nervously, though also quietly relieved to finally tell someone. “It’s hard to tell, I know – I’ve been losing so much weight because of the morning sickness. It’s awful. I keep trying to eat because the baby needs it, but it’s a struggle most days. There’s some small consolation in knowing that it won’t last forever, and that the little blighter isn’t doing it on purpose.”

She tried for a small chuckle and almost made it. He didn’t look up. He spent a full minute staring at her hand, swallowing over and over, and it was killing her. She just needed him to say something, anything…

“Why didn’t you… why…” His voice cut out.

“Because you’re so angry, Spence,” she said quietly, and it brought his eyes up to hers. “A baby is meant to be loved. I didn’t want you to do something or decide something out of obligation. Even I wasn’t sure how I’d manage when I arrived here. But someone made me see… life goes on.” She rubbed herself, realizing it was the first time she hadn’t tried to hide it. “And that’s when I decided that’s what we’d do, even if you weren’t coming with us.”

She took a deep breath and then let it out again.

“You think I’ll resent you. You think I’ll miss out on something more if I stay. But I have what I want.” She reached for one of his hands and curled her fingers through it, then she pressed them both against her. “If you let me help you chase your fears away.”

His fingers moved under hers, circling gently over the fabric of her dress that still hid their secret. She released his hand and watched as he flattened his palm against her, long fingers spidering across her belly in a silent claim. When she looked up, he was watching her, eyes still rimmed with red, the shadows under them still damp. His mouth was a firm line, muscles twitching along his bearded jaw as if he was holding something immense inside. But when he spoke, his voice was gentle, the way almost all of her memories of him were.

“I think you _were_ made for this moment.”

His voice broke, and then he gave up and simply mouthed the rest, _I love you. Stay. Please._

She skimmed his face, cupping him close, and gave him the gentlest kiss she could.

\---- 

There were stones scattered across half of the nave, and there was a hole in the roof that one could see the clouds through, but other than that the church was beautiful. Not that anyone appreciated the two-hundred-year-old stained glass or the gilt-edged frieze illuminating the lives of the saints. There was just the priest in his moth-eaten vestments, and Hotch standing near the altar next to Spencer in a wheelchair. Emily blinked in the entryway, eyes trying to adjust from the brilliant summer day just beyond it, and a small bouquet was pressed into her hand. She turned to the side and saw the French nurse beaming at her. It had taken Emily a little while to find her, but when she asked her favor, the woman happily agreed with another effusive hug. 

“Très belle,” Madeleine whispered, and Emily felt herself blush. 

Then the woman was gone, shuffling quickly and quietly down the aisle to take her place on the far side of the altar. Emily followed, not quite as quickly – she didn’t want to seem as if she were running, though if she were it was _towards_ Spencer and not away from him. She was nervous – a happy kind for once – but still, nervous. And nerves didn’t work well with her stomach, so she hoped she could make it through everything with the sense of decorum the moment deserved. She smiled when she reached him, and he smiled back at her, though his eyes were anxious behind his glasses. His dress uniform hung oddly on his thin frame, like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes, but he’d done his best with his hair, and the beard was thankfully gone.

 _Hi_ , she mouthed as she settled beside him. He grinned and mouthed the same back, but then the priest cleared his throat and glared at them for a long moment as if they were making a mockery of the proceedings. Then he went into a prayer that was refreshingly brief, since Emily’s French wasn’t good enough to understand it and she didn’t want to risk his ire by asking him to do it in English instead. When they got to the actual ceremony, Emily turned to Madeleine and she handed her the pillow. The priest raised an eyebrow at it, as did Spencer, but she dropped it to the floor quickly and then knelt down on it.

“What-” Spencer shifted anxiously beside her. She reached for his hand – technically before she was allowed to, which produced another priestly scowl – and squeezed it.

“It’s fine,” she whispered back, smiling at eye-level with him. “Pay attention. If we get this wrong, we’ll be in trouble.”

Spencer was flustered, glancing at her sideways every few moments, but he made his way through the vows without a hitch. When the priest asked for the rings, he said, “Oh, we don’t-”. Hotch stepped forward with two simple bands in his palm. 

“Ici,” he said quietly, and then gave Spencer a wink when he looked flabbergasted.

Emily repeated her vows, they slipped on the rings, kissed, and it was done. Hotch and Madeleine congratulated them and then tactfully moved away as the priest shuffled off, no doubt grumbling about insolent Americans. Emily remained kneeling beside Spencer, holding his hand in both of hers.

“Well, that’s that then,” she grinned. “Can’t get rid of me now without a lawyer.”

“I don’t ever want to get rid of you, Captain,” he said too softly, fingers tracing hers blindly as he stared too long. His eyes got glassy, and she pinched him quickly to stop it; if _he_ got sappy, then _she’d_ get sappy and the whole thing would go to the dogs after that. He yipped a little and then looked around quickly for avenging priests. Then he glared at her.

“What was that for?”

“Are you happy?” she asked. “I mean, maybe not as happy as you could be but-”

“I am so happy, Em. And grateful that you didn’t give up. I should’ve known you’d never give up.” He lifted his other hand and ran it gently along her hair. “I have a lot to make up for.”

“No, you don’t,” she shook her head. “This is who we are now – a fresh page. Everything is new from here on out.”

“Is that why you’re kneeling?” he asked, and then gave her a softly censuring look. “You shouldn’t be kneeling… with the baby-”

“I’m pregnant, not made of porcelain, Spence,” she sighed. “And yeah, I’m kneeling because we’re partners now. We’re equal. I needed to look you in the eye when I said yes.”

He swallowed hard and blinked at her. “Thank you.”

Then he shuffled around in his chair more than she thought he could. He let go of her hands and rooted, then he produced the battered book from somewhere behind him and held it out to her.

“Speaking of new pages, this is for you. It’s not much of a gift but, it’s all I have left.”

“What… what is it?” She took it gently, and it fell open in her hands. There were letters – her letters – peaking from between the pages, and handwritten scrawls in Spencer’s spidery script. As she flipped through it she saw poems and drawings, flowers pressed between parchment paper… “Is this a diary?”

“Sort of,” he shrugged, cheeks getting rosy. “It’s where I saved your letters. And if I lost any, I rewrote them in here for safekeeping. But mostly, it’s what I’ve thought and felt about you over time. A lot of it I was too shy to say – I’ve always been better on paper. Anyway… you should know it all now.”

“Oh, Spence,” she murmured, vision blurring a little when she saw a drawing he’d made of them dancing together. “I can’t take this. It’s so personal… it’s-”

“Emily, I want you to have it.” He wrapped his hand over hers on the journal. “It’s my heart, and I nearly broke it. It’ll be safer with you.”

He leaned in and kissed her temple, squeezing their hands over the book. She smiled and let out a distinctly wet chuckle.

“You just wanted to see me cry on my wedding day, didn’t you?”

He laughed softly into her hair, and she leaned hard into that comfort. 

“Thank you for my gift,” she murmured. “But what about the journal part?”

“Don’t worry. I’m starting a new one. For married life,” he pulled back and grinned. “A new page.”

“A new page,” she nodded, matching his grin, and then pulling him in for a kiss that the priest would most certainly disapprove of.

\---- 

February 1945

Emily was relieved when Millie agreed to move down from Mildenhall for the final month of her pregnancy, but four weeks of her marauding children and Spencer’s increasingly brittle smiles made her doubt it was a smart plan to begin with. And it also made her very worried about her and Spencer’s ability to be parents. Each night they would shut themselves into their bedroom in their four-room, ground floor flat in London, and both let out long-suffering sighs that they were trying to hide. It was hard enough trying to figure out this new life with Spencer, who needed so much daily care and could either be very cooperative or slightly snippy about it without warning, let alone managing that with two hellions playing Cowboys and Indians all day, all over the furniture, while their mother ignored them and shouted, “Who wants a cuppa?” on top of it all.

“I’m worried we can’t do this,” she said quietly one night close to the end, her belly enormous under the blankets. His hand snaked into hers in the darkness.

“We’ll find a way. I know… I know I haven’t been helping matters. I’ll try harder,” he whispered. 

“What if you don’t like being a father?” She was shaking as she said it because she had been wondering it for a while. He was already a handful just day-to-day. With a screaming, fussy baby mixed in, he might develop an even shorter fuse. “You were good with Millie’s children in the past, but now-”

“They weren’t all over the place every day before,” he grumbled.

“Spence, what do you think having a baby will be like?” she shot back. “We won’t be able to get away from him, or reason with him to be civil. He’ll cry and throw things and make messes everywhere. I can’t fuss over him and you at the same time-”

“I’m not asking you to ‘fuss’ over me,” he snapped, and pulled his hand away. Tears threatened, thanks to final-month jitters and a lack of sleep. She was grateful for the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Emily… I don’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” she gulped. “But your anger leaves me feeling so alone.”

“I…” He stopped and shifted a little beside her. “I can’t _do_ anything. I feel like a guest in our home, like Millie and her kids. You’re always buzzing around making sure everyone has what they need, like a hostess, even to me. I can’t reach anything on the shelves. I can’t go out on my own. I don’t have anything to fill my days but… _thinking_ about the nothing that I’m doing. And the whole reason why Millie’s here is because I… can’t take care of you when the time comes. It’s… demoralizing.”

She lay there and thought about that for a while, her heart heavy and the baby moving anxiously in her. Then his hand skimmed back across hers, lacing into her fingers, and his thumb cautiously circling over her.

“I can do better,” he assured her wetly.

“Spencer, what had you planned on doing when the war ended?” she asked, a spark of an idea building in her. “You must’ve have thought about it a little…”

“Uh… I don’t know, really. I guess I assumed I’d go back to teaching. Maybe at some college known for a field of study that caught my eye. I could get another degree perhaps…”

She turned to face him, or as much as her belly would allow. “Why can’t you do that now?”

He was silent for a long time, just a silhouette next to her in bed. “There’s still a war on, Em.”

“Schools still run. Students still need teaching.”

“I can’t teach from a wheelchair.”

“Why not? Other than getting in and out of campus buildings, was there any element of your previous life as a professor that required your legs?”

“You’re being reductive. Who would hire me?”

“I imagine any number of universities here, or in the States would. Perhaps even some in Europe, if the damned war ever ends…”

“No one will hire a cripple,” he said tightly.

“You’re right. No one will hire a cripple. But I bet a whole lot of people would fall all over themselves to hire a war-hero genius with a world-class mind and an unstoppable passion for learning. If he happens to be in a wheelchair, so be it. It might not matter to them if it didn’t matter so much to you.”

She rolled away from him again.

“If you want to be useful, then _be useful_ , Spencer. But don’t sit there expecting it to just fall into your lap and then get ticked off at everyone when it doesn’t. You don’t want to be fussed over? Then don’t make me fuss. Ask for things to change, or they never will.”

She tucked the blankets around her a little too forcefully, wanting to make an island of herself from him.

“And tomorrow we’ll get the kids to move the books to the lowest shelves and the decorative stuff up top. The baby will eventually break that stuff anyway.”

She lay there waiting for him to say something else, but he didn’t, and eventually the baby dragged her down to sleep.

\---- 

When the time finally came, Millie was a godsend. A tiny, ferocious shepherd to a panicking herd of children, adults, and doctors at St. Bart’s. She ordered her children to flank a contracted Emily as she wheeled a wide-eyed, terrified Spencer speedily behind them.

“Oi! Oi! Hold ‘er hand now, ye little begger… that’s right. A-oh! Lady with a baby coming ‘ere! Step smartly! C’mon, c’mon…”

She barked like a sheepdog and everyone, surprisingly, fell into line without an argument. Even the obstetrician held no power over her.

“Wot ye mean he can’t go in? Ye think he ‘asn’t seen any o’ that before today, do ye?”

“Husbands aren’t permitted in the delivery rooms. That’s standard hospital policy, ma’am. He’s welcome to wait in-”

“My husband pulled both me mites out. Was a great help, God love him. A father should see his babes brought inta the world. Makes ‘em care more. It’s natural.”

“New fathers get nervous, ma’am. They get in the way, they faint-”

“Oh, mercy be! He’s in a chair already. If he goes milky on ye, he can’t go far, can he? Just push him to a corner ‘til he comes ‘round.” 

“Ma’am, really-”

“Ah! She’s callin’ for him. That’s it – we’re off! C’mon, Spence… time to get ye inta the fray…”

The doctor gave up when Millie pushed Spencer past the smirking nursing staff into the room where Emily was impressively yelling for him. And despite his general sense of terror, he didn’t faint. He held her hand and murmured soothing things even has she ground the bones in her grip until he gasped. When she gave her last push and the doctor congratulated her on her work, and her daughter, Spencer craned himself in his chair to catch a glimpse. The nurses cleaned her and quickly laid her against Emily’s chest while he watched, dumbfounded. Emily just held her close and cried with relief.

Spencer’s bewildered expression remained even after the baby and Emily were settled in a maternity ward room together. He watched her feed their daughter for the first time, his chair rammed as close to the bed as the contraption would allow, his eyes as big as saucers and his fingers curled in the blankets over her as if he wanted to hold them both. Emily smiled and rolled her eyes when she realized he wouldn’t ask, and then she shuffled forward with a groan and placed the swaddled bundle in his arms while he blinked in shock. Then she waited.

He was riveted to the tiny face, her little eyes closed but her lips and fingers still wiggling from feeding. He shuffled her closer, more comfortably as he leaned back in the chair, and then skimmed a chubby cheek with a long finger. Their daughter hooked a hand blindly around the finger when he presented it to her, and she sucked the tip as she snuffled in his arms. He let out a small laugh and curled around her like armor in a flash, and Emily’s heart quietly burst in her chest as she watched it happen. Spencer ducked his face down and brushed his lips across the baby’s head, breathing a little deeper as he lingered. Then he looked up at Emily suddenly, his glasses slipping and his face flushed pink.

“We have a baby!” he grinned, and she laughed hard even though it hurt to do it.

“Surprise…”

He looked back down at her, fascinated. “She’s so tiny…”

“You’re not disappointed that she’s a girl?” Emily asked, and he glanced back at her, confused. “I thought all men wanted sons…”

“Nonsense,” he huffed, and looked back at the baby. “She’s perfect. Can’t you see she’s perfect? Males are overrated. Males wage war. Males put others down…”

“Hmmm,” she murmured. “Maybe. But males also make telescopes, and write books, and save lives.” She ran a hand along his arm curled around their daughter until he looked at her again. She smiled. “They help folks. They love. They make babies.” She waggled her eyebrows and grinned as he choked on his own laughter, cheeks turning scarlet. She waited until it passed and then drifted her hand up to his face, cupping his sharp edges. “Males aren’t so bad. Many of them are lovely, in fact.”

He was quiet for a long time, just staring at her as she stroked his cheek and their daughter slept in his arms.

“Thank you for fighting for me,” he murmured eventually. “Thank you for… dragging me forward, kicking and screaming, into this future.” He looked down at the baby and his face softened so dramatically it took her breath away. If she had doubts about him wanting this, they were gone now. “I didn’t appreciate my luck until today, I think.”

“You’re welcome,” she hiccupped softly, blinking too fast and loving him so completely as he was distracted by his daughter that it made her chest hurt. Then she cleared her throat. “She… she needs a name, you know.”

He looked up and the softness remained when he watched her and smiled. “You choose, Captain,” he murmured.

Her heart fluttered a little, and she wiggled on the bed to cover how much she enjoyed his sappiness.

“Well, how about Elliot?”

“Elliot? It’s a boy’s name.”

“It doesn’t have to be. And it could give her an advantage – no one would make assumptions based on her name alone.”

“Except that she’s male, you mean.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Okay, maybe that. But it could get her foot into doors that might otherwise be closed to her. Think about it: Dr. Elliot Reid…”

His face lit up. “She’s getting a doctorate?”

“She could,” Emily smiled, watching the bundle in his arms. He looked down too, cuddling her close.

“Yeah, she absolutely could.” He grinned. “Okay. Elliot. Our girl, Elliot. Maybe Ele to her Daddy…”

“Maybe Ele to Daddy _and_ Mommy,” Emily murmured back as she shuffled closer to him once again and they fell into watching their little girl sleep between them.

\---- 

[Journal entry]

March 8, 1945

Today I’m twenty-four-years-old and you are one month old. Please don’t tell your mother, but I love another as much as I love her. She might be fine with it – after all, we did make you together. I cannot believe that I almost missed out on all of this. What a lunkhead your Daddy is!

You’re so beautiful, Ele, even when you’re red-faced and screaming and you won’t let us sleep. You’re beautiful the way your mother is beautiful when she loses her temper and storms off only to come back later with a new plan to make things better. You’re both beautiful because you are fighters and you’re never static. My girls are always surprising, and that makes every day an adventure. I hope we have years and years of adventures ahead of us.

Right now, it’s very early – the sun isn’t up yet – but I had to hold you. Luckily, I’m like a bassinet on wheels so, you can sleep, and I can write, and we can dream in this gloaming together. I have a secret, Ele. I applied for a teaching position at Oxford and got it. I didn’t expect to – that’s why I didn’t tell Mommy – and now I’m a little scared about what this means for us. But when I watch you now, all perfect and moon-faced bundled asleep in my lap, I think about my little fighters. You and Mommy. This could be another adventure, couldn’t it, Ele? It could be wonderful. I shouldn’t be afraid. Will you and Mommy help me be unafraid? That’s what I’d like for my birthday, if you’re still looking for a gift to give me.

I love you so much, sweetheart. I think I’m going to have to pick you up now and hold you, just until I feel brave enough to put my acceptance letter in the post. Don’t wake up, little one. Continue dreaming…

\---- 

May 8, 1945

Emily rushed through the front door and the narrow hallway of their house, nearly tripping over some boxes she still hadn’t unpacked and sending the groceries everywhere. 

“Spencer!” she shouted, sprinting to the kitchen to put the bags down then searching from room to room. “Where are you? Spencer!”

“Here!” he called back from the small library he used as his office.

She stumbled into the room finding him feeding Ele with both of them curled close to the wireless next to his desk.

“It’s madness out there,” she gasped, feeling turned around and confused, her heart hammering too much. “Like a riot, but without the fear. There are people dancing in the High Street… strangers dancing… is it true?”

Spencer stared at her wide-eyed, Ele fussing a little in his arms.

“It’s all over the wireless,” he whispered. “I… didn’t believe it at first, but…”

His eyes started to get glassy behind his lenses.

“It’s over,” he choked, and a tear slipped down. “God, it’s really, finally over, Em…”

She rushed forward and kneeled next to his chair, arms wrapping around him and Ele as much as she could. He shook terribly against her, and her throat tightened as she soothed him, her own tears falling into his cardigan.

“It’s okay, Spence,” she hushed wetly, Ele beginning to whimper between them.

“I shouldn’t be crying,” he mumbled. “It’s confusing…”

“Oh, love, don’t worry about that.”

He pulled away and tried to shush Ele’s fussing while brushing his tears. Emily reached up and cleaned his cheeks for him, making him look at her.

“I was at war for five years,” he whispered, and she nodded, lips tight and her tears still falling. “I was barely more than a boy in the beginning, and they told me all they wanted was my mind, to do the math…”

She leaned up quickly and kissed the tracks of his tears, wanting to soothe him more, better.

“Now, I’m a man on the other side. Without legs. I’ve… killed people. Watched men die horrible deaths. Seen _evil_ in the flesh…”

Emily gripped him with a hand on either side of his jaw and forced him to focus on her.

“You _survived_ , Spencer,” she said firmly. “You’ve lost some things, but you are not _lost._ You remain the best man I’ve ever met, with the tenderest heart. You are a beautiful father, a wonderful husband, and my best friend. Don’t discount all the good that’s happened as well.”

He nodded a little, then he shuffled Ele to one arm and raised the other until he could clasp her hand and draw it to his lips for a brief kiss.

“The war gave me you. And Ele.”

Emily nodded back, smiling through her blurry vision. “The war gave you a family, and tenacity, and love. You are _so loved_ , Spencer.”

She leaned in and he met her halfway, the kiss gentle and lingering, one of survival and memory. Ele fussed again, and Emily reached out to cup her head, smoothing the soft hair across it as she kissed Spencer one more time. He smiled against her mouth and sighed heavily.

“Now, you’re a mathematics professor at Oxford,” she murmured proudly, and then reached out and switched off the wireless.

\---- 

1946

“Damn!” 

Spencer looked down and saw the front wheel of his chair canting at an odd angle again. He rocked the larger wheels back and forth, but the whole thing refused to go any further down the hallway. He was going to be late for his Clinical Psychology lecture.

“Em? Emily?”

“What?” Emily popped her head around the corner from the living room curiously, and a moment later, Ele scooted along the floor to join her mother.

“Da?” Ele gusted.

“It’s the front wheel again,” he huffed and pointed at it accusingly. “I’m stuck.”

Emily’s brow furrowed as it only did when she went into ‘fixer mode’, as Spencer called it. She flung the tea towel from her hands over her shoulder, strode down the hall and knelt in front of the chair, squinting at the wheel.

“Stupid thing,” she grumbled, wiggling the castor joint forcefully as she supported the chair’s weight with her other hand. “Shoddy design. It’s like it wasn’t even made with people in mind. Some idiot somewhere is making a mint off of this mediocrity…”

Spencer smirked at her growling. “That’s why I keep you around. My grumpy pit crew…”

She shot him a look, and then went back to forcing the wheel into alignment. Ele called out, “Da!” again and crawled closer to them both.

“This never would’ve passed muster in the Air Force,” she growled. “Completely unreliable. I mean, _look_ at it. Slipshod fabrication, sloppy assembly, it’s hard to adjust, it only works under optimal conditions, it’s bulky, heavy, it tips easily, it fights the user at every turn, the seat hurts your back…”

Her tirade trailed off and her hands stilled as her eyes lost their focus.

“Em?” Spencer leaned as far forward as he could. “Emily?”

She snapped back to it and glanced at him. “Do you have anywhere to be today?”

“Umm, well, I’m already late for my Psychology class…”

“Yeah, I think you’ll have to skip it.” She bashed the heel of her palm one last time against the wheel and it rotated as it should in the joint. She placed the full weight of the chair back to the floor, and then scooped Ele up and deposited her in Spencer’s lap.

“Oooooohhhh!” Ele squealed.

“What? Em…”

“Sorry, Spence, but that wheel won’t make it across campus anyway. I’ll have to get a replacement. It’ll be okay for around the house though.”

She got up and raced down the hall towards the door, grabbing her coat as she went.

“Where are you going?” he called after her, a little put out.

“I’ve got an idea. Be back in a jiff. Play with Ele!”

She was out the door before he could stop her.

 

It took her three weeks to source the materials she wanted, and then nearly another month to build it and find folks who could make what she couldn’t. When she wheeled it into the living room one evening after they’d put Ele down, Spencer’s eyebrows popped up in surprise.

“What’s this?”

“A wheelchair. Obviously.”

“Are you sure?” he looked at it dubiously. She rolled her eyes at him.

“Yes, I’m sure. I made it.”

Then he focused on her in shock. “You _made_ it?”

“Yeah,” she grinned and stood a little taller. “It’s time to upgrade from that piece of crap you’re in now, and when I considered buying a new one, I thought, ‘why just buy a newer piece of crap?’, you know? Maybe I could make a better one.”

“Em…” he said with awe, and she felt herself blush.

“Well, uh… I really thought about its use first. Made that the primary focus of the design.” She hopped around the squat, minimalist frame and began pointing.

“Firstly, I made the chassis two pieces, not multiple jointed parts, so it should rattle less and have fewer weak spots that will wear out faster. And I made it from a lighter, stronger material – I contacted Mildenhall and talked to the chief mechanic there now. We bartered for some flight-grade stuff that’s tougher than nails.”

She grinned at him and he smiled back, though still looking confused.

“Anyway, it should make it faster while using less energy than the old one, which will no doubt make your arms happy.”

“Yes,” he huffed.

“That’s also why I got rid of the arm rests – they interfere with your ability to efficiently propel yourself. And the seat back has been reduced to the bare minimum required to support your spine. The primary function of the old seat back is to give handles for a nurse to push a patient around. But that’s not what you need, so it’s gone. You are autonomous – you move yourself around now.”

Spencer started blinking rapidly and focused on the chair in front of her. Her heart swelled behind her ribs, but she kept going.

“You’ll see that it has three wheels, not four. That’s for enhanced maneuvering. The small wheel in front is your steering, the two large wheels are your engine. It should corner on a dime now. And because I made the big wheels bigger, angled, and the wheel base wider with the seat lower and between them, the whole thing is a helluva lot safer. No more tipping.” She looked up quickly. “It lowers your overall height – sorry about that – but what you gain in speed, stability, and handling will be worth it, I’m certain.”

“Wow,” he huffed. “You really thought through all the angles, didn’t you?”

“Oh, also, the whole thing folds up. That’s why the chassis is two pieces and not one. It collapses into half the space of your current one. And you can do it with one hand. See?” She demonstrated but ended up using both hands. Though it was obviously easier than what they went through with the old one. “Okay, so… two hands. But still, convenient. It’ll fit in the back of the Austin now, no problem.”

She turned back to him and smiled. “So, what do you think?”

His face was serious, eyes sweeping over the gift rapidly as he blinked too fast. Her smile fell, and she twisted her fingers together. Then she added, “I know… it might be hard to get excited about something that reminds you of what you’ve lost, but-”

“It’s a wonderful thing, Em,” he said softly, then looked at her directly. “It’s creative and thoughtful… you must love me very much.”

“Spence,” she moved forward and dropped to her knees next to him. “I want you to be your own man as much as possible. And this _contraption_ you’re in is preventing that simply because the person who made it never considered that someone without legs could manage on their own. It made me angry.”

Spencer’s mouth curled into a smile. “So, you did something about it.”

She blushed again. “I’m not gonna lie – it felt pretty great to get my hands dirty again. To make something _work_. I’ve missed that.”

She felt his hand skim along her cheek, fingers ending up in her hair. When she met his eyes they were adoring, proud.

“Maybe it’s time to think about opening up your own shop,” he whispered.

“I can’t. Ele needs me-”

“Ele will still have you. It’s a garage, not a mission to Borneo, Em.”

“I dunno, Spence…”

He sighed. “Love, I think you need this. I promised you once that I’d support your career if we married. My damned legs got in the way of that for a while but… now, I’m teaching, and we have some money from what your father left to you… and I can handle Ele. You know I can.”

“Spence,” she blinked and turned away, ashamed that she was still so afraid of what he’d always thought she could achieve. He kissed the side of her face instead.

“Just start thinking about it, okay?” he whispered, and she nodded. She could do that.

“Alright. So, let’s get me into this thing already,” he breezed, and rolled himself towards his gift.

She would end up spending far too much time cleaning tread marks from the wood floors, but it was worth it to see Spencer roar through the house like he was racing at Le Mans. And he made her patent the design as well, though she explained the materials were far too dear for it to be mass produced. He told her that was beside the point: it was a prototype. The first of many things she would make once she opened her own place. Her patent certificate was framed and he made her hang it up so that anyone who came to visit would know that he was married to a genius.

\---- 

1947

Emily stepped through the door and the first thing she heard was Ele screaming. It wasn’t hunger or wet pants or even a I-don’t-want-to-take-a-nap kind of screaming. It was terror. Emily dropped her bags and ran towards the nursery, not thinking about the snow she was tracking in or how it nearly made her wipe out in the hallway when her boots slipped. 

“Spencer? Spencer!”

Ele was standing in her bed, rattling the rails that she was still young enough to need, red-faced and crying, “Da-deeee!” Spencer was curled on the floor by his tipped chair, seizing.

“Shit,” she said, rushing forward and pushing the chair away. She made sure his arms were free, his glasses gone, and his spine protected, rolling him slightly more on his side as she ensured he wasn’t choking. “Okay, Spence, okay,” she soothed, flicking his hair out of his eyes as they rolled. Then she looked up at Ele. “S’okay, baby. Daddy will be okay…”

She held him through it and tried to calm Ele at the same time, but the episode was longer than usual, and when foam began flecking from his mouth, she quietly begged a higher power to make it stop.

“I’m here, love. Easy does it,” she mumbled wetly, over and over.

Finally, his body gave up, quietening to abortive twitching and the deep rasping that followed each attack. His eyes were open, but she knew he wasn’t aware of her. It was like been shoved into a hypnotic state through sheer exhaustion while the body tried to reset itself. Mercifully, when Spencer stilled, so did Ele, sliding down to her mattress and watching them together, whimpering and sucking her thumb. Exhaustion hit her too, and she dozed off now that the moment had passed.

Emily rocked Spencer’s body absently, stroking fingers through his hair, waiting. The attacks were happening too often now; the medication didn’t seem to help. And they were longer. This one was horrifically long. She glanced at her watch and estimated that he’d seized in her arms for nearly seven minutes, and now he’d been unconscious for twenty. His body couldn’t take that sort of stress and there was no way to predict the next attack. It was interfering with his teaching and his studies, and it made leaving him with Ele risky. God, if he’d been holding Ele when it happened…

“How… how long?” he husked, and she looked down to see the slow blinking that meant he was rousing.

“I dunno. I found you in it, and then it went on for quite a while.”

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He couldn’t move yet, but that would come soon.

“Ele?”

“She’s okay. Really scared, but okay. She was still in her crib.” Emily leaned forward and brushed her lips across his forehead. “I was really scared too,” she whispered.

“Em…” He twitched his fingers and it meant he wanted to touch her. She slid her hand into his and he squeezed as tight as he could. “Am I… wet?” he asked after a moment.

“Hmmm. You pulled the catheter out.”

His eyes rolled shut again as a blush rose to his cheeks, silently ashamed. Emily squeezed his hand until it was all she could feel.

“Spencer… I think it’s time to revisit the Boston plan,” she choked.

He kept his eyes closed and didn’t say anything, but his mouth thinned and he nodded slowly, gripping her back with all he had.

 

The ‘Boston plan’ was Dr. Jonah Wasserman at Massachusetts General Hospital, a leader in the field of spinal cord injury and one of the few surgeons who could perform the surgery Spencer had been told of when he was first assessed. The surgery was risky and expensive, the journey exhausting, especially with a toddler. Spencer shut it down every time Emily had brought it up in the past.

“The success rate hasn’t changed in three years, Emily,” Spencer grumbled, but Emily was busy whizzing around the bedroom packing their cases. “And the mortality rate hasn’t gone down either.”

“It won’t hurt to sit and listen to his opinion,” she responded crisply, mind already made up. She wasn’t losing him because of his stubbornness. She hadn’t lost to that in France, and she wasn’t going to lose to it in England.

“It’s a long way to go for a conversation.”

“Not if that conversation is life-changing,” she rounded on him. Then she sighed and dropped down to sit heavily on the bed. “Maybe he has some ideas about the seizures, Spence. I don’t know. But we’ve gotta do something. You’re getting worse – you know you are.”

He rolled until he came to a stop in front of her. Reaching for her hands, he leaned in until she looked at him.

“It’ll eat up all the savings. That’s the seed money for your garage-”

“Spencer, do you really think I give a damn about the garage if you end up dashing your head open somewhere during an attack and dying on me? I _don’t care_ about the garage now. I only care about THIS.” She cramped her hands around his, begging him. “Ele needs her father. I need my h-husband…”

Her voice gave out and he blinked hard behind his glasses. Their marriage wasn’t easy. There were plenty of high moments: Spencer’s professorship, Ele’s first steps, Emily finally finishing her flight hours and gaining her license… There were birthdays and holidays by the sea and picnics in Oxfordshire during school break and dinner parties with the bright minds of the university faculty. But there were also the litany of health issues, the frustration and anger that Spencer never entirely shook off, and the lost intimacy. They’d tried for a time after Ele was born, but Spencer’s frustration spread to the bedroom. He felt attraction, but his body wouldn’t respond; Emily could manually stimulate him, but he couldn’t feel it, only see it happening. He dismissed it, saying it didn’t matter so long as she had pleasure, and he could still do that with his hands and mouth. But it left her cold knowing that he did it while suffering quietly, and eventually she refused even that. They’d lost a lot without realizing it, turning into romantic friends who shared a life that was _good_ , but not what they’d hoped it would be. Sometimes they lay awake next to each other, each wishing the exact same thing without knowing it: that there was somehow a path to _more_ , if they could only find it.

When she said she needed her husband, perhaps Spencer heard all of that behind the words. He nodded quietly; maybe he thought that being scared together was worth a tilt at futility.

“Okay,” he mumbled. “Let’s take Ele to America.”

Emily leaned forward and hugged him for far too long.

 

Wasserman’s office at Mass General was bright and filled with photos of him smiling with people in wheelchairs and hospital beds. Emily took it all in and thought it a little odd. But perhaps all the traveling, visiting with her resentful mother in New Haven, and leaving a crying Ele with her when she and Spencer set off for Boston was taking its toll on her. Regardless, she leaned towards Spencer beside her and whispered, “It’s like he’s advertising that he cripples people. You know, if you didn’t know what his specialty was…”

Spencer snorted softly. “I was thinking something similar.”

“Well, maybe it’s a sign that he really loves his patients…”

When Wasserman finally appeared, he was a funny, enthusiastic little man who spoke loudly and seemed to notice everything. When they made their introductions, he suddenly got down on all fours and examined Spencer’s chair, fascinated by Emily’s design.

“You made this, Mrs. Reid?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I did.”

“She was a WAC mechanic in the war,” Spencer explained warmly.

“Marvelous, simply marvelous…” Wasserman breathed as he poked at it.

He was similarly delighted by Spencer.

“Honestly, you’re the perfect candidate for this procedure, Dr. Reid. It’s very exciting. I couldn’t have drawn up a more textbook patient if I tried. It really enhances the chances of success. In fact, I’d go as high as 20% in your case…”

Emily blinked and gripped the arm of her chair too tightly. “One in _five?_ ” she said shakily, guts dropping. “He’s the best candidate you’ve seen, and still he only has a one in five chance of improving?”

Wasserman’s enthusiasm deflated a little.

“Sadly, Mrs. Reid, spinal cord research is in its infancy. I wish I could say otherwise. A generation before, many of the injuries I see would have been fatal. At this point in time, the field is focused on survival. But that survival comes with a significant burden to the patient, and it's… not always a life that they want.”

Emily ducked her gaze and refused to look at Spencer. She tried not to think of him scooped out and devastated in that hospital in France, staring out the window without any hope for his future.

“This is why I offer the surgeries that I do,” Wasserman leaned across his blotter at them both, genuine concern washing over him. “I want to give patients a different kind of survival. Until our understanding of the brain and nervous system improve, or the tools become more sophisticated, it’s the most I can do.”

“Doctor,” Spencer spoke up after a moment. “What is it you think you can offer in my case?”

“Well…” Wasserman leaned back in his chair, squinting thoughtfully and tenting his fingers. “Your best assets are that your cord is intact, you’re young, and that the injury isn’t very old. After reviewing both your army and civilian medical files, I’m confident that the lingering shrapnel is the lion’s share of your burden. If it were removed, I see no reason why you couldn’t regain some sensation. Perhaps a great deal, even.”

“Well then, why the low odds?” Spencer asked.

“The shrapnel wasn’t removed at the time for a reason. Now, I know that military doctors range from capable to borderline incompetent, but they were wise not to get ambitious in your case. The fragments are _very_ close to the cord, and a surgical mistake could cause further damage. But, your increasing seizures lead me to believe that the fragments might be shifting, which puts you at further risk anyway.”

Wasserman leaned in again and gave both Spencer and Emily a serious scowl.

“It comes down to this. Your quality of life is currently quite good, and it may be possible to better control the seizures with a combination of medications. _But_ , if we do the procedure and remove the fragments, you’ll never have another seizure. The risks are substantial however. Damage could occur during the surgery. Damage may have _already occurred_ due to the shifting – it’s impossible to tell until we open you up. And there’s the post-op infection factor. Even with state-of-the-art facilities, infections are the source of most spinal cord injury deaths, not the injuries themselves. I have implemented strict sterilization and hygiene regimens here at Mass Gen, but nothing is guaranteed.”

Everyone fell silent for a moment, and Emily saw Spencer duck his head, his mouth tight and his brow creased.

“Dr. Reid, I honestly believe that this procedure could be a benefit to you,” Wasserman continued gently. “But you have a good life, a young family… only you can balance the risk of what you’d be giving up if you decide to do this.”

Spencer looked up and then turned to Emily, eyes wide behind his glasses and his mouth tipped white with pressure. Wasserman read the room and opted to be tactful.

“I’ll give you folks some time to discuss this.”

When the office door clicked closed, Emily reached for his hand and clasped it. His fingers curled around hers and squeezed, but he didn’t say anything. She gave him a few moments to untangle things in his head and then she stepped onto the field of battle again.

“So, what are you thinking?”

“It’s between remaining as I am, or becoming slightly better,” he sighed. “But I’ll never be as I was.”

“I’m not sure that was ever an option,” she said quietly. He looked up and the sadness aged him suddenly and dramatically.

“Yes, but I had hoped…”

“Spence…”

He shrugged it away and looked around the room at the smiling photos.

“This could kill me,” he murmured, not looking at her while he said it. “I could die on the table. I could die afterwards… Ele might not remember me if that-”

He stopped, and Emily’s heart stopped as well. Then it flared to life again painfully and she gasped around it, squeezing his hand and blinking away the vivid imagining of him just being _gone_.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered, because she didn’t trust her voice to be steady. “We’ll drive back to New Haven and-”

“But a seizure could kill me too.” He looked at her then, and though the sadness was still there, there was something determined underneath it. His thumb circled her hand gently. “I’m not brave, Em. Don’t mistake this for bravery.”

“You.. want to do it?” she gasped softly.

He nodded. “I want to see Ele grow up. I want to be a part of that, not some increasingly fragile invalid on the sidelines. I want… something _more_. Perhaps that’s selfish of me, all things considered, but it’s what I feel.” He watched her carefully and squeezed her hand again. “What do you think?”

“I… I want that too,” she said breathlessly, feeling her chest get tight. “I mean, this is truly frightening but… I keep thinking, ‘what if it works?’”

He nodded again and his eyes drifted, going inward. She raised her other hand and cupped his cheek, and he came back to her as if called.

“I’m with you, either way,” she whispered. “I’m beside you. Forever.”

He surprised her with a sudden smile, not entirely happy, but completely honest.

“Okay,” he nodded against her hand. “Call your mother and tell her we’ll be in Boston a while longer.”

 

He floated through the clouds, rising higher than them as if he consisted of nothing at all. It made him laugh at the absurdity, and then he found he couldn’t stop laughing. He flapped his arms around and began to swim. The air was cool against his cheeks, icy through his hair as he learned to swirl and dive, going faster and faster. _This must be how she feels,_ he thought as he arced up, bursting through the clouds again and becoming temporarily blinded by the sun. _Flying…_ He blinked in the sunlight, still laughing, and called for her. He didn’t know if she was there, but it _felt_ like she was. She was the frost on his face, the excitement in his veins pushing him higher and higher… _Emily, this is amazing._

“Spencer?”

He turned to her voice and the clouds swallowed him again. He was sorry to lose the sun, but everything felt so soft and fine, he wasn’t that upset. He couldn’t see her though.

“Em’ly?”

“Spencer, I’m here. Open your eyes.”

“Flying…”

“What, love?”

“I’m flying…”

He heard her chuckle and he wanted to see it so badly. He made himself blink, and his inside world matched the outside world; everything was blurred and light. He kept blinking, kept looking for her. His head rolled around, and the colors changed before him. Something dark leaned down and he got frightened for a moment, then warmth lined his face and he smelled her.

“Em’ly,” he sighed.

“Welcome back.”

“When did you… get to the clouds?”

“Oh boy, are you loopy,” she giggled, and he felt fingers in his hair. “But it’s good to see you.”

“You’re happy…” he snuffled and turned a little more towards the dark blob over him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her giggle.

“I am.” There was a brush of lips to his forehead. He hummed his appreciation. “You did really well, Spence. Flying colors.”

“Hmmmm, flying…”

She giggled again, and he smiled at it. He loved making her happy, and it was so easy to do here in Cloud Land.

“Okay, Sky Pilot, sleep off the rest of the drugs and we’ll talk later.”

“ ‘Kay, Captain. Love you.”

“Love you too,” she breathed close, and then he swirled back through the soft layers of sky above, propelled by her happy laughter.

 

Wasserman was practically beaming as Emily flitted around the hospital room collecting things. She was _not_ beaming however, mostly because one of the latches on the suitcase kept popping open even after her stern warnings to desist. Spencer sat in his chair and watched her carefully.

“So, please keep me informed of your progress, Dr. Reid,” Wasserman said, ignoring Emily’s small war and not offering any help. “I’d also love to correspond with your physician in Oxfordshire, so we can trade notes. Sharing information and learning is key to pushing the field forward.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll send you his address.”

“Wonderful,” Wasserman grinned and rolled on his feet like a proud parent. Emily sat down heavily on the suitcase again, smacking the lock closed with her palm and grumbling.

“Emily, do you want some help?” Spencer asked.

“Nope.” Her brow furrowed, and she lifted herself away from the suitcase gingerly, staring at it as if it were going to go off.

“Now remember, the daily muscle exercises are essential. _Essential._ You have to build them up again slowly. It’ll take patience. Also, be tolerant of the tingling. It might become distracting or painful at times, but your body is trying to reconnect with itself. There are medications available, if it becomes permanent.”

Spencer nodded; they’d covered all of this already. He wasn’t happy about the prospect of the pins-and-needles sensation in his right leg becoming a permanent addition to his life, but at least it meant he knew his leg was _there._ He hadn’t had that feeling in over two years. He glanced at Emily again whose whole being was focused on stalking the suitcase like an injured zebra at a watering hole. He bit his lip to keep the laughter away. Wasserman seemed oblivious to the packing drama.

“Sweetheart, are you ready to go?” Spencer asked when he had his voice under control. She didn’t look up, just kept staring the bag down.

“Preeeetty sure, yeah.”

Spencer’s hand covered his mouth quickly as he grinned like a fool. Sometimes, she was so much like the headstrong woman he first met through her letters.

“Well, best of luck to you,” Wasserman sighed. “To you both. Remember that the best therapy is patience and perseverance.”

“Uh, thank you, Dr. Wasserman,” Spencer wheeled closer and shook his hand. “Thank you for everything. I’ll keep you up to date on any improvements. It was an honor to meet you.”

“The honor was mine, Doctor,” Wasserman smiled, and then tipped his head towards Emily, who took a hunting break long enough to say goodbye. Then he was gone, leaving Spencer and Emily in a bland hospital room with a three-hour car ride ahead of them.

“So,” Spencer breathed, and let himself smile at her. “Shall we go rescue Ele from your mother?”

“As soon as possible,” Emily grinned back with a sigh. “She’s already trying to stuff her into children’s dresses that haven’t been in fashion for thirty years.”

Emily leaned against the suitcase, and the lock popped open with a defiant snap.

“Stupid, blasted…” she grumbled and started the war all over again. Spencer laughed and wondered if it would make her redesign a suitcase next.

\---- 

December 1947

“I don’t want to go.” Spencer fidgeted in his chair like a child. He was also dressed in a tuxedo, which was slightly less childlike.

“I know,” Emily called back casually from the bathroom.

“I’m always so awkward at these things.”

“I know,” she repeated placidly.

“I get flustered that I’ll say the wrong thing, or use the wrong fork or something…”

“Yes, I’m familiar with you.”

He got irked; he’d hoped for more sympathy. And perhaps a confederate in escaping the university faculty and donor Christmas party. She wasn’t much for the society la-de-da functions either.

“Why can’t we just stay here? You, me and Ele. Some Bing Crosby on the wireless, some egg nog by the fireplace…”

“Because the mathematics department needs funding, and you are their prized possession. So, you have to trot around like a good show pony for a few hours. Besides, I thought you wanted to run your research paper past the head of the psych department…”

“I won’t be ‘trotting’ anywhere,” he grumbled, looking down at his tuxedoed legs in his chair.

“I heard that…” she called out. “Don’t be grumpy. That won’t make this go any faster.”

He scowled at the bathroom door and wondered what the hell she was doing in there that was taking so long. The sooner they left, the sooner they could come home again.

“My suit itches,” he pouted. “And I look like a uniformed circus monkey in it.”

“I highly doubt that.”

She sighed and reappeared from the bathroom, absently clipping an earring in place. And all the breath left his body at once. She was dressed in something dark and slim that clung to her in all the best places. But the fabric was muted, so from a distance she seemed like a stylish silhouette, not too racy. It revealed one shoulder and bunched artfully at the peak of the other in a glittery clasp, and when she moved, a slit up the side showed a flash of leg before it disappeared back into darkness again. Her hair was drawn away from her face, but hung in long curves against her throat, making her pale and mysterious with her dark eyes and red lips. He swallowed hard as he watched her come to him, feeling warm and useless, the way he used to when she met him somewhere looking like a casual goddess out for tea or something.

“See?” she smiled when she got closer. “You look marvelous in that. You clean up good for a circus monkey. The Chancellor would be pleased.”

“Where… where did you get that dress?” he gulped, eyes flicking over her again and again. “Never seen it…”

“You like it?” She grinned and did a little twirl for him that made the leg slit flare and the fabric flutter. It was beautiful everywhere, emphasizing her bust and hips, and her long legs pouring down into her barely-there sling backs. “I bought it for tonight. I shouldn’t have – it was a bit rich – but I thought it might help the cause. Besides, I haven’t had an excuse for something pretty in a while. Might as well set the department gossips atwitter.”

She winked at him and went to find her purse. He imagined himself rising from his chair. He pictured himself walking to her at her dressing table, turning her by the hip, and pressing her close as he kissed her until she melted against him. He envisioned licking his way down her neck, into the soft waves there, smelling her perfume, tasting it, then his hand wandering up to the fragile clasp at her shoulder while his other curved around her waist. He heard his voice rasp lower when he suggested again that they skip the party. He felt her pulse flutter under his lips when she leaned her head back and chuckled knowingly, her fingers slipping into his hair…

But none of that was real. 

“I know they think we’re a questionable pair of ducks,” she continued, her back to him. “The American doctor who worked for SIS in the war, and his grease monkey wife who flies planes and comes from ‘new’ money in the colonies. Well, I suppose we both come from the colonies, don’t we? You get away with it because you’re brilliant…”

He watched her collect her things from the nightstand as he breathed shallowly, and his bow tie felt like a tourniquet. Four months after their return from Boston, and he was still stuck in his chair, still quietly yearning for her as he had from the day she walked into his room in La Rochelle. He wondered if she still felt that way about him anymore, or if she’d adjusted to their life of cuddling and soft kisses without looking back. She strolled across to him, giving him an odd expression.

“It’ll be fun to stir the old tweed-clad hornet’s nest a little. Try and think of it as a class warfare experiment. For your psych studies, or something. What’s that look about?” she asked.

“What look?”

“Answering a question with a question. Nicely done, Professor,” she smirked, and then she considered something, her merriment falling away. “Are you feeling all right? You’re a little cranky… Is your leg tingling too much?”

“It is, but that’s-”

She lifted her dress and kneeled next to him immediately, brows furrowed.

“Maybe we didn’t do enough toning today,” she murmured, raising his right trouser leg and beginning to massage it. He huffed in frustration because, although it was still a shock to feel her fingers on his leg, he didn’t want her touch to be therapeutic. He didn’t want her to heal him; he wanted her to want him, the way she had that evening under the dance hall awning in the rain when he thought she’d rather cut off her arm than stop kissing him.

Her fingers worked expertly, circling up his calf, around his dress socks, up to the knee, extending it slowly and fully, and then repeating it. And it did help the low-level electric buzz that lived there constantly, but it just made his ache worse. He could feel her now, which was new, but he still couldn’t ask for more. It was a strange form of torture.

“You’re a little tight, but not bad,” she mumbled, slipping his trouser leg back down and working his knee through the fabric instead. “And your tone’s getting so much better. If you start getting more consistent feeling, I think we could try standing with canes soon. What do you think?”

He nodded when she looked at him hopefully, and then she turned back to his leg, her fingers working his thigh muscles now with the same sure and steady technique. He wanted to reach out and gather her hands in his, move them over him, tell her, _please touch me like you used to_. He wanted her skin to warm his, the tickle of her fingertips tripping across his bare ribs, the whisk of her hair across his chest when she dipped down to kiss his solar plexus. He wanted her kiss – her _kiss_ – not her ‘goodnight’ one or her ‘I’m so proud’ one, but her deep and hungry and desperate for every inch of it she could get. He wanted to moan against her, kiss her breasts and tell her she’d never disappeared inside him. Not with a baby, or the passing years, or his uselessness that pushed her away. He was sorry he’d made her feel wrong for wanting pleasure; he’d been selfish and afraid back then. He’d give anything now to bring her to life with his touch, to have her eyes glaze with joy as she clung to him. But he’d allowed her to accept less, and then let that silent agreement live between them for too long.

“Would you like to take a muscle relaxant for the party?” she asked, as she continued working obliviously. “You know, to make it less uncomfor-”

Her fingers stopped working him and froze where they landed. He looked at her, but her eyes weren’t on his, riveted to his waist instead. His tuxedo pants were tenting obviously.

“Spencer,” she whispered with a strange sort of awe.

“Uh…” He was mesmerized. She hadn’t come close to touching him there. He’d been thinking about her, but that never worked without help. “Em, I…”

Her hand reached out and hung in the air over him as they both held their breath. His eyes flicked to her face momentarily, and her cheeks were flushed under her make-up, her mouth open a little in surprise. Then his gaze flicked back to her hand as she hesitated. He felt as though a scream was trapped in his chest, punching his lungs from the inside out, but he remained perfectly still. Her hand lowered until she defined his shape through the fabric. He watched it happen but he also _felt_ it. His breath stuttered out of him loudly and awkwardly, and her hand stopped as she looked up.

“Can you… feel that?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he groaned. The noise wasn’t a good one, and she began to shuffle back when he blurted, “Don’t stop.”

She looked at him, blushing and gorgeous, and still with awe. But there was also apprehension – the tension that he’d put between them that he desperately wanted to tear down now.

“Please,” he begged. “I… I was thinking of you…”

Her fingers pressed against him again, but she never took her eyes off his face. Something complicated washed over her as he breathed roughly and shifted in his chair, hands suddenly curling around the big wheels to keep him in one place. She sat straighter on her knees, her hand slowly wrapping around him through the thick fabric and tugging gently. He rolled his eyes shut for a moment and groaned when something hot flashed over him that he felt it settle into a pull in his pelvis. He remembered how great and terrible that was, and it was great and terrible again. He opened his eyes, gasping at her, helpless in the sudden sensation, and she leaned up until she knocked her forehead against his and breathed roughly herself. Her eyes closed and she pressed hard, as if she needed him to hold her up, and her hand cautiously worked him, squeezing and pulling in the quiet of their bedroom. He was stunned. Her blush spread down her throat and across her chest, her mouth hung open as if she were feeling his ache as well. Then she dipped in and kissed him the way that only a moment before he assumed was gone forever. She licked into him, again and again, breathy and reckless, and then she let out the tiniest whimper that sent him into orbit.

“Spencer…” she husked.

He lost control, a hand racing up from its grip on the chair’s wheel and into her hair.

“I-I… I was thinking o-of you…” he wheezed, his lips pressing the words into her cheek.

She worked him harder, perhaps too hard. His mind began to race, wondering what to do, what to say, how had it happened, would it happen again, was it alright, should he ask her to help him, could he get out of the chair without breaking the spell… She rose up again to catch his mouth and it pushed the chair back slightly. She stumbled forward on her knees, cried out, and knocked into the chair frame as she tried not to fall. He had to grasp both big wheels quickly before he rolled away on her. When he’d righted himself, and wheeled next to her again, he was already softening. He stared down in horror as he receded, but the terrible pull remained, circling uselessly in his hips. She placed her hand over him again, but it was done. His face flamed with shame and he turned his whole upper body away from her, biting back a wet, defeated noise. He couldn’t do it, he didn’t work. He still wasn’t a man.

There was a full minute of pointed silence, he blinking too hard and gasping enough to make his chest swell obviously against his tuxedo shirt, and she kneeling beside him, her palm warm against his trousers.

“Spencer,” she whispered. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to pretend she wasn’t there, his heart pounding like he was about to die. “Spence, please look at me. Please.”

It took all of his faith in her, and a considerable amount of sacrificed pride, to open his eyes and face her. Her eyes were glassy and huge, her lipstick smudged, but she was still stunning. Then he realized she was smiling.

“W-why are you… smiling?” he whispered.

“Because I’m happy,” she said back quietly.

“H-happy?”

She nodded and shuffled close enough that the edge of her bodice brushed the top of his knee. Her hand fell lightly over his as it gripped a wheel rim.

“You know what this was?” She waited, but he ended up shaking his head. “This was hope, Spencer. You can feel desire, and your body reacts to that. We didn’t know that could happen.”

He blinked rapidly, still feeling so hot that his face must have been scarlet by now. “But I didn’t… it doesn’t… I… lost it.”

She leaned up and brushed her nose gently against his, her lips skimming his skin with breath as her eyes closed. It almost looked like joy, and his eyes went wide as he tried to focus on that.

“So, we keep working,” she whispered, her voice a little shaky. “Every day we do the stretching, we inch our way towards using the canes, we get you stronger, and we do everything in our power to get your body to heal as much as it can. And we continue to hope, because your body wants to live, and do things and-”

“And touch you,” he squeezed out of a strangled throat. She paused when she heard him and shivered a little against his cheek, and his eyes closed when he thought, _she hasn’t forgotten – thank god she hasn’t forgotten me…_

“And touch me,” she repeated into his skin just before she kissed him. “Your body wants all of that, so we’re going to hope and put in the work until we get that.”

He reached for her then, hands wrapping around her a little awkwardly, but she adjusted to fit with him. She always did that: adjusted to fit. But he pulled her close and nodded frantically into her hair repeating the word ‘yes’ over and over. Because for the first time since he woke up in a French hospital, he believed he might be himself again someday.

\---- 

Spring 1948

It was a beautiful morning that Ele was attempting to ruin in as many ways as possible. Though now precociously three years old, Emily thought that she might have decided to regress to infancy for the day. She’d been impatient with their morning routine and Spencer’s exercises, she’d fought getting dressed, and now she was making a mockery of table manners.

“Ele,” Spencer tisked for the fourth time in warning. “Toast soldiers are for eating, not actually waging war. Stop playing with your breakfast, please.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” she pouted.

“Don’t be sorry, just do as you’re told. Eat.”

He watched her, frowning critically behind his glasses until she picked up her fork and resentfully ate a mouthful for him. Then he nodded and glanced across the table at Emily – problem solved. She rolled her eyes a little; he was naïve, and she’d be dealing with cranky offspring for the rest of the day. It was only eight fifteen and she was already exhausted by what the day held for her.

“What’s your schedule for today?” she breezed as she flicked through the morning mail.

“It’s a full day,” he sighed. “Teaching all morning, a department meeting from one to two, and then a conference with Professor Wilberforce about accelerating me into the Psych Masters program, followed by student office hours until five.”

She smirked a little. “I can’t believe your advisor’s name is Wilberforce. Gets me every time. Do you think he’ll do it? The Master’s program, I mean…”

Spencer shrugged. “He’s old fashioned and wasn’t in favor of me taking the BSc to begin with. You know, specialties should stay in their own pastures and all that. But I’ve done all the work, and the results are irrefutable. I want to take the next step – the field is fascinating and completely open in terms of possibly. If he puts up obstacles, I could appeal to the Chancellor, and I don’t think that’s a knuckle-rapping Wilberforce wants.”

Spencer began pushing his food around his plate absently. Ele watched him with a piqued frown.

“Mathematics is just so… stuffy. I never thought I’d say that but, I want something new, I guess. I want to understand people’s motivations.”

She watched him, giving him a sad smile. “You want to understand what you saw in the war,” she commented.

He looked up and nodded after a moment. “Maybe.” 

She shrugged and went back to her eggs. “Well, sounds like a hectic day. Should I plan a later dinner?”

The question suddenly struck her hard: when had her life become this? A wife planning meals around her husband’s work and her list of daily chores. Once upon a time this had been her worst nightmare: an existence of quiet, unfulfilled desperation. Spencer answered her, but she didn’t hear it, glancing between him and their daughter, and feeling torn in two by love and disappointment. She’d become the daughter her mother always wanted: she’d married an impressive man, had a child, became a respected, doting wife in the society in which she lived. But where had the little girl who’d been banished to a neighbor’s farm to pull apart tractors disappeared to? What happened to the woman who roared through the countryside on a loud motorcycle that now stood dusty and idle under a tarp in the garage?

She sipped her tea and choked on it a little, and when Spencer looked at her strangely, she fiddled with the mail again. As if on cue, a letter in her mother’s script slid out of the pile.

“Oh, a letter from Mom,” she murmured. 

“Oh?” Spencer said very carefully. Elizabeth Prentiss and he were not fans of one another. “What does it say?”

Emily opened it and a thick, official-looking document slid out of the plain letter paper wrapped around it. She squinted at the document, then he eyes went wide and she clutched the letter up reading it furiously.

“What is it? Em?”

Emily read it twice to be certain. “She sold the house,” she whispered, fingers worrying her lips. “She gave us a portion of the money – whatever would’ve gone to me and Evan when she dies…”

“What?” Spencer breathed in shock, and Emily slid the bank draft across the table to him.

“It’s a king’s ransom. I… I had no idea.”

“But… _why?_ ” Spencer was reading the bank document intensely. She didn’t know why he was doing that.

“I told her… we weren’t coming back to the States. After the surgery in Boston. Maybe I wanted to get under her skin a little – you know how snippy she was about being separated from Ele for so long. She wanted us in New Haven, and I snapped a little and told her that my life was in England now. That with Daddy and Evan gone, there was nothing in Connecticut but the past.”

“Oh,” Spencer said quietly, looking up from the bank papers. “I didn’t know you’d done that.”

“Yeah. It was mean of me,” she mumbled, reading the letter again without really seeing it. “She says… the house is too much of a burden, and that she and Dad always planned to give it to me and Evan when we had our own families. Since we’re staying in England, there’s no reason to hold onto it anymore.” She breathed in sharply, and then tried to settle herself. “She also says that Evan’s being repatriated this month.”

Spencer breathed out in a whoosh. “Evan’s coming home?” 

Emily nodded, mouth tight.

“You should go, love-”

“No,” she shook her head. “Mom’s not having a service or anything. She’s just putting him next to Dad, and then moving to Montauk to stay with a spinster society friend. It says it right here.”

Her vision got blurry and she blinked until the script became crisp once more. Then a hand was over hers on the letter, and she looked up to find Spencer had wheeled up beside her. He leaned close and kissed her temple, eyes haunted the way she imagined hers were.

“Mommy?” Ele murmured from across the table, not understanding the scene at all.

Emily sat straighter and tried for a smile. “It’s okay, baby. Daddy and I are remembering your uncle.”

“He died,” Ele said softly.

“Yes, he did, peanut. In the war. Long before you were born.”

Spencer’s hand tightened around hers.

“He was Daddy’s friend,” Ele continued.

“Yes, he was,” Spencer smiled sadly at his daughter. “He was a good man.”

Ele watched them both. “You’re sad he’s dead.”

Emily choked a little and Spencer huddled a fraction closer.

“We are, sweetheart, but we’re not only sad,” he explained gently. “You see, when Uncle Evan died, I met Mommy and I love her very much. She became my best friend in the whole, wide world, and that’s quite a thing because the world is very big. So, we are sad Uncle Evan is gone and he can’t be here for birthdays and Christmases, but we are grateful that he allowed us to meet because we love each other – and you – so much and we have a wonderful family together. Does that make sense?”

“Uh-huh,” Ele nodded, but didn’t seem sure.

“You know what?” Spencer smiled. “I bet Mommy could really use a hug right now. Wanna come over here and help me with that, peanut?”

Ele bounded out of her chair, flicking toast and egg remnants in her wake, and zoomed around the dining table until she plowed into Emily’s side with a huff.

“Love you, Mommy!”

“Oh, love you too, Elliot,” Emily smiled and wrapped her daughter close. Spencer curled his arms around her from the opposite side.

“Love you,” he whispered into Emily’s ear, and she leaned into it appreciatively. “I could cancel my morning lectures…”

“No. Go,” she smiled. “You have a full day and so do I. We can’t let Mother sandbag us from across the Atlantic. Honestly, her ability to disrupt is positively occult in nature.”

She rolled her eyes and Spencer chuckled.

“Go on,” she murmured. “We’ll talk about this later. We’ll also have to decide what to do with the money.”

“One idea comes to mind.” He kissed her and then rolled his chair back to the side table to collect his bag. “And it involves socket wrenches and axle grease…”

“Don’t start,” she grumbled, but he lifted an eyebrow and smirked at her, knowing he’d make his escape before she could threaten him further.

“Oh, try and stop me, woman. I’m just as stubborn as you, and I have a thing for dames in overalls.”

He winked, and she threw her napkin at him, which would probably come back to haunt her when Ele started doing it.

“Think about it!” he called over his shoulder as he left.

“Lunkhead,” she grumbled, wrestling Ele around to wipe breakfast from her face. 

But his words wormed their way into her head and stayed there, just like they always did.

 

April 11, 1948  
Oxfordshire

Dear Mom,

Your letter arrived this morning and… I’m not sure what to say.

I know that we’ve never really understood one another, and I suppose that hurt me more than I let on. It probably didn’t seem that way with all the things I did to be opposite to you, but it’s true. And now that I’m a mother as well, I can see that all of my tomboyishness and rebellion probably hurt you too, so I’m sorry – truly. If Elliot did to me what I did to you, it would cut me very deeply. I never wanted that, Mom – I never wanted to hurt you that way. I just had to be _me_ , and I selfishly bent myself towards that goal without thinking of how it would affect anyone else. I’m grown now, and there’s an ocean between us, but I wanted to let you know that I love you, even if I don’t understand you.

You may believe that I’m mostly Daddy’s daughter, but there are things you’ve given me that have helped me in very difficult circumstances. I haven’t chosen an easy life. I’ve been afraid, despaired, and been brutally disappointed. But I haven’t given up, and in my darkest hour when I thought there was nothing left for me, I drew on the qualities you taught me – how to be strong in adversity, how to control myself, how to be steely about doing what needs to get done – and these things helped me carry on. You are formidable, Mom. You cast an imposing shadow. And though you think I’m unladylike, I have aspired to that same imposing stature in my own ‘modern’ way. I will pass these things onto Ele as well because they have great value for a woman in a man’s world. Each generation builds on the one before it, you see…

Mother, I’m not sorry about who am I, the life I chose, or the man I married. I know you wanted me to make other choices, but I hope, one day, you’ll be proud of these ones. I couldn’t have done it without you. I have no clue what to do with the money but assume that you don’t wish to discuss something so crass as that. Thank you anyway.

As for Evan… it hurts that we’ve both left him behind in New Haven. But, I suppose, he’s with Daddy. And you’ve done what you have to – I (thankfully) have no idea what’s it’s like to bury a child. I hope you said goodbye to him from me. If you didn’t, that’s fine too.

I have enclosed a recent photo of Ele (yes, she’s on a motorcycle, no, we don’t _actually_ let her ride it – this was her choice for the pose). She’s a real pip, Mom – a total firecracker. Another Prentiss woman who knows her own mind.

Be well in Montauk and keep us up to date on how you get along. Thank you for everything.

Love,  
Emily.

\---- 

Fall 1948

He’d been looking at her strangely all evening. It began when she burst through the door, late for preparing dinner, still in her filthy overalls and spitting mad at the recalcitrant Dodge lorry still up on blocks at her shop. She thought he might have been irked by that, but when she rushed to the kitchen she saw a soup pot on the cooker and some bread warming in the oven.

“You cooked?” she turned when he rolled in behind her, his eyes comically wide as he stared.

He nodded. “Didn’t know how long you’d be. It’s nothing special – just soup.” He kept staring at her while somewhere behind him Ele began singing along with the wireless.

“What’s wrong?” she asked eventually.

He blinked, and then raised his hand to his forehead and wiggled his fingers. “You have… umm… a smudge…”

“Oh,” she blushed and pulled the kerchief from her hair to wipe at her face. She knew she was a mess. “Sorry. I’m a fright. I’ll… go wash up. Thanks for putting soup on, love. That was very thoughtful.”

“You’re not a-” he started, but she was already moving down the hall.

“Back in a jiff!”

She was a little embarrassed. Ever since the night of the faculty Christmas party, she tried to make an effort to be attractive. She wanted him to see her as something more than a mother, or a woman standing over a cooker. He’d been enthusiastic about opening her own workshop in town, but she doubted that dressing in formless coveralls and work boots slicked in engine oil would cause him to get hot and bothered for her. And they’d had hiccups on that front anyway. His physical condition was coming along well, he even tried using the canes regularly though his left leg still seemed mostly senseless. But intimacy was something they were struggling with – either their timing was off, or he couldn’t control anything, or sometimes they just tried too hard. He’d resumed using his hands and mouth on her, and appeared to enjoy it, but she couldn’t quite let herself go completely. It was the same thought that stopped her before – she couldn’t satisfy him in return, and she dearly wanted to. So, she kept doing her hair and rotating new outfits into her wardrobe hoping that eventually it would all click for him, and by extension, her as well.

She put on something simple and soft, then went to the bathroom and sighed at her reflection. It wasn’t just a smudge, it was a big greasy smear across her forehead with some black finger marks on her cheeks like she was an ugly clown or something.

“Oh, for the love of Pete!” She scrubbed at herself until her skin was red and patchy from the effort. Then she sagged and sighed again. “Is it any wonder he’s so confused?”

She quickly brushed her hair and added a touch of lipstick to distract from the red marks, and then shuffled back to her family. She’d have to take a bath later, but it hardly mattered, the illusion had been shattered for the evening.

Dinner was savory and satisfying, and playing with Ele afterwards was diverting. But he kept _staring_. It was a little unnerving. Had she missed a spot? No, he’d have told her…

“How did you get the soup pot down?” she asked as Ele played with wooden cars on the carpet in front of them. “That’s usually on a high shelf…”

“I used the canes.”

“Really?” she smiled, pulse speeding up. “On your own? That’s great, Spence.”

He shrugged. “Standing’s easy. It’s walking that’s hard. Besides, Ele was holding the chair steady behind me in case I collapsed. She can be very helpful when she puts her mind to it.”

He winked at Ele, and she curled into a ball of glee and giggled at him.

“Still, that’s wonderful, love. I’m so happy you tried on your own.”

She grinned and patted his chest. He reached out quickly and caught her hand, keeping it pressed to his chest as he stared at her. She felt her face get warm.

“Okay?” she asked softly, wondering what he was about.

“Yes,” he murmured back, and then leaned in for a kiss. And the kiss wasn’t a quick affectionate peck. It was warm and lingering, his tongue sweeping her lip before he pulled back. He held her hand still and she stared at him for a long minute.

“That was nice,” she whispered eventually, and his lips twitched into a shy smile as his cheeks got ruddy. His fingers curled into hers and he sighed, happy. He was continuing to be odd, but in a lovely way, with an escalating warmth radiating from him.

“Maybe we should start making the canes part of the daily routine,” she murmured, but he backed off quickly and his smile fell.

“Can we not talk about therapy now?” he asked tightly.

“S-sure. I just thought…”

“I kissed you and you said it was nice. Then you’re right back to my legs again.”

Oh. She turned away from him in shame. If it wasn’t her appearance, it was her words. She just couldn’t get the balance right. “I’m sorry.”

“I just want us to be normal sometimes,” he snipped.

“I said I was sorry.”

“I know,” he sighed, and then rolled away towards Ele. “C’mon, peanut, time for bed…”

“Daddy, no! I don’t want to!”

He’d deliberately started Ele up so that her fussing would end any further conversation. Emily felt as if she’d been physically pushed aside.

“C’mon, now, Elliot. Your bedtime is eight o’clock. You know that,” he chastised gently without looking at Emily. “If you behave, we’ll have a story first. You can pick.”

“Peter Pan?” Ele asked cautiously.

“Yes, you may have Peter Pan. Now come along: teeth, face, jammies. Chop, chop!”

“Spence, I can take her,” Emily offered.

“It’s fine. I’ll do it,” he said back, still not looking at her. “She likes how I do the voices.”

Ele raced down the hallway and Spencer rolled behind her without another word or a glance. Emily sat back into the sofa, defeated again. Then she decided that the bathtub was as good a place as any to brood. She waited until she heard Spencer’s voice carrying evenly from the nursery as he recited a story to Ele, and then she padded into the bathroom and away from their sight. 

She lingered in the tub, trying not to think, as the water turned from hot to lukewarm to tepid. She considered how far they’d come, how many obstacles they’d faced, and she resolved herself to stop placing new ones in their path. Spencer had lived, making it through the war as he promised her, and also agreeing to face a future with her that was radically different than what they had planned. He’d done so much, tried so hard, and for all that had changed, so much of who she’d fallen for was still there underneath it all. But sometimes she focused too much on the changes and not the man. He was asking to be seen beyond his chair, and she thought she’d done that, but maybe she was no better than the students who called him ‘Wheels’ behind his back. She shook her head when she realized that they were both asking for the same damned thing in their own way; he wanted to be a man to her, and she wanted to be more than a brood hen to him. Dipping her head below the water’s surface, she thought they were both pretty idiotic for people who were simultaneously so capable.

She washed her hair and then drained the tub, slipping into a robe as dampness dotted the silk at her shoulders. She caught sight of herself in the mirror – starkly plain without make-up or clothes to hide under – and just stared. One day soon men would no longer stop and look at her. It was every woman’s fate. For all of her railing about the shallowness of the male gaze, she knew she’d miss it, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Spencer would stop looking at her that way as well. She vividly remembered when she’d mesmerized him… She shook it off and walked back to the bedroom. He was there when she arrived, already dressed and in the bed, his chair tucked neatly by the bedside table.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Is she down already? I should go say goodnight…”

“She’s asleep. Let her be. She never lasts more than a chapter or two.”

Emily nodded and stood silently. He was staring at her again, though it was harder to make out with just the bedside lamps lit. She had no idea what his expression was. Resentment, disappointment, familiarity… She suddenly decided that ‘not knowing’ was part of their problem, and she walked to his side of the bed perching herself on it next to his stretched-out legs. Now his gaze seemed hesitant. She sighed softly and leaned on an arm, curling her legs under her on the bed.

“I’m sorry about before,” she started.

“I know you are. You already said it.”

“But it’s not just enough to say I’m sorry, Spence. I know what you were asking for, and I ignored it because I’m all wrapped up in my own concerns. But of all the people who should pay attention when you want to be seen, it’s me.” She looked down at her fingers tracing patterns across the blankets. “I feel terrible.”

She felt him shift in the bed and when she glanced up he’d cocked his head in curiosity, looking oddly professorial behind his glasses, but also comical in his pajamas.

“What concerns?” he asked gently.

“It’s…” she shrugged and then shook her head. “I was about to say, ‘it’s nothing’, but it’s obviously something, isn’t it?”

She flashed him a quick smile, and he leaned forward a little on his pillows, his pajama top gaping loosely where it was open at his collarbones.

“Tell me,” he said.

“I was… flustered this evening. When I got home.”

“I noticed.”

“And I noticed that you noticed, which is why I was flustered.”

His brow wrinkled in confusion.

She sighed and just went for it. “Ever since the night of the Christmas party, I’ve been… trying to be more attractive to you.”

She felt heat rising in her face, as his eyebrows popped up.

“I know we’ve been trying, but we’ve never quite had the same… _feeling_ as that evening, and I suppose I thought that if I was more comely in general, we might increase our chances. But it’s a struggle when you’re chasing after a three-year-old and trying to keep the house going and attempting to make the workshop into something more than an eccentric housewife’s hobby…”

“Emily…” he murmured in surprise.

“And you were staring at me because I was filthy and mannish, not because of the reasons that I wanted you to see, and that upset me, and I guess I just started talking to deflect your attention, and that’s when I said the wrong thing and got into trouble.”

“Emily, stop,” he said quietly but firmly, and she did, watching his surprise turn into something unexpected. “I was staring at you tonight because you were beautiful.”

She blinked. “C’mon, Spence…”

“On the level,” he affirmed and leaned a little further forward. “I never saw much of your mechanic side when we first started up – I mostly just heard about it in your letters. But the sight of you in your work clothes, with evidence of your capabilities all over you… I find that very alluring.”

“You’re… you’re kidding,” she murmured, too shocked to think beyond the idea that he thought a grease monkey was ginchy.

“No, I’m not. I mean, you were categorically gorgeous the night of the Christmas party. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, and I’ve been hoping we could find our way back to that moment as well. You’re not alone in that.” He ducked his eyes for a moment, and she wondered if he was blaming himself for their failures. “But whether you’re in a ballgown or dungarees, I am drawn to you. You’ve always set me off, Em. That’s why being more than a man in a chair to you is so important.”

She moved then, shuffling closer to him on the bed, reaching out and sliding a hand up his arm under his pajamas top.

“You’re more than that,” she whispered, pulse rabbiting around suddenly. “I might get it wrong sometimes, but you’re not the chair to me.”

She pushed her hand further up his sleeve, feeling his muscles contract as she moved over them. His upper body had become very strong over the years in compensation, a fact she was reminded of whenever she saw him change clothes or hoist himself into his chair. He watched her closely as she inched closer and her hand kept moving.

“I know what people say about us.” She shuffled until she was beside his hip. “The faculty wives, the folks in town… most think we’re an odd match.” Her other hand rose and traced a light path along his collarbone at the V of his shirt. She watched as the dip there momentarily got deeper when he breathed in sharply. “But what I see is the man who appeared next to me at King’s Cross station. I remember… the first thing I thought when I saw you was… _oh my…_ ”

She breathed the last part, and his skin goosepimpled under her fingertips. One of his hands finally moved, drifting up to trace a single finger down the side of her throat, circling slowly when it reached the dip at the base.

“Really?” he whispered.

She looked up and his gaze was focused with the same amazement he’d shown the night of the party. Her heart pounded out a few painful beats at the sight, seeing that all he needed was something genuine from her. She dropped her hand from his arm and reached up to pull his glasses off instead. His eyes were huge with or without them, and she loved the way they told her so much about him.

“For a second, I couldn’t breathe,” she said as she placed the glasses on the bedside table, and then leaned in until her lips brushed his. “There was something about you from the start. I just wanted to be near you.”

He caught her lip and held it for a moment, then let it go with a stuttered sigh. He mouthed her name without sound, and she dipped in to taste it, to pull it into her. Then he was roaming against her softly, slipping away and pausing to look at her for an instant each time before returning to her lips. It felt like a slow, rocking tide, and she leaned into the rhythm gratefully, her hand splaying across the base of his throat for balance, but also catching the excited skip of his pulse with it. His hand left her throat and rose up into her damp hair, tightening and pulling her just a fraction closer, with an odd whimper deep in his chest, and she scooted until she ran out of room on the edge of the mattress.

He pulled back suddenly, not in a panic, but as if he needed a moment. He never looked away, gaze still amazed. She waited, breathing shallowly through her mouth. His other hand drifted to her robe. He hooked a finger in the fabric as it crossed her chest, and he tugged once, gently. She trembled a little, wanting to hope but scared of failing again.

“Are you sure?” she asked, and he nodded very slowly, looking as if he were beyond words now.

She stood away from the bed, his hands letting her go easily, and his eyes riveted to hers as she moved. She watched him in the dim light for a moment, then untied the belt at her waist and slid the silk over her shoulders and down. She took another moment to stand there, to let him get a look at her, but he kept his eyes on hers and eventually held out his hand to draw her back to him. She climbed back in, carefully bracketing his hips with her knees, and leaning back to sit on his thighs. Her hands rose to his shirt, fingers shaking a little as she undid the buttons. His hands traced circles in the bare skin above her hips as he watched her work, then he shimmied out of the shirt and sighed when her hands smoothed across his bare chest afterwards. Her fingers found one of his bullet scars and tripped around it lightly. He sighed again and leaned his head back against the pillow, eyes rolling closed.

“Alright?” she whispered, and he nodded, eventually coming back to her, leaning in for a deep kiss.

“You’re always going to be my home,” he husked before he took her mouth once more. 

His hands skimmed up her back, tracing the arch of her spine, then lifting her closer and tighter against him. She felt him hard beneath her through the blankets, and her whole body lit up in an instant as her heart rammed into her throat and worry edged back into her.

“Do you want to…” she kissed into his mouth.

“Yes,” he said, sucking her lip into his mouth a little too recklessly. “But hurry, Em. I don’t know how long it’ll last…”

She arched up on her knees, his lips slipping away as they skimmed down to her breasts. She wrestled with the blankets, breathing in gasps when he left wet halos over her nipples and his fingers traced her curves relentlessly. Then she was tugging at his pants.

“Lift yourself a little,” she hushed, and he pinioned himself up from the mattress with his arms as she shucked the pajamas down his hips to bunch around his knees.

He was hard, and her hand shook when she reached out to palm him tentatively. He groaned and dropped his head back, and she made a strange, soft sound when she realized how solid he was this time.

“Oh god…” she said shakily, feeling nervous and scared and excited all in the same breath.

“Please, Em, hurry,” he whispered tightly. “I want to feel…”

She raised herself, lined him up, and slid down almost before she could think about it. She twitched a little, not used to the ache and stretch anymore, and she hadn’t given herself time because they needed to rush. She groaned as she settled in his lap, trying to adjust, but he gasped loudly, his whole upper body arching back, and his mouth open as if he couldn’t catch his breath.

“Spencer…” she called out, worried.

“Oh god… ohmygod, Emily…”

His voice was stripped bare, wet rasps punching from his chest. His hands clasped her hips tightly, lifted her on him and then pulled her back down forcefully. He gasped again, rolling his head from side to side on the pillow bunched behind him.

“God… _I feel you…_ ”

“Spence?”

“Help me,” he begged, finally opening his eyes and finding her in his arms. His gaze was glassy, out of control, lost… “Help me.”

She shifted, leaning into him for a desperate kiss, and then rolling her hips to give them some movement.

“I’m here,” she breathed into his mouth as she went deep again, arching along him and threading her fingers up into his hair as he tipped his head back again.

His mouth went lax under hers, gasping harshly between her pulls, but not turning away from her kiss. He seemed blown out with sensation, his hands gripping her back and his fullness inside her the only things he could focus on. She rolled her hips over and over, in wider arcs, making little whines against his mouth and cheek as it lit up her edges. Her breasts pressed into his chest, skimming with the rise and fall of her against him, and he whispered her name like she was something sacred. She trembled hard at the sound and moved her mouth to his ear.

“Say it again, just like that…”

He groaned her name, the syllables drawn out and shaped with reverence on shallow breath. His hands moved, dropping down until one wrapped completely around her waist and the other curved at her bum. Then he added his pull to her rolling, the muscles in his arms flexing noticeably when his grip tightened. And suddenly she was just as desperate as he was. They’d never come close to making it this far before, and the feel of him moving in her again brought back every memory of them, every painful absence and every blissful reunion. Her eyes pricked, and her throat got tight. She rolled hard against him as he moaned, pressing her face into his cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” she choked into his skin, fingers curling fiercely in his hair.

He shivered brutally into her, gasping out a cry that abruptly cut out in mid-note. His hands painfully bit into her and pulled her down, out of rhythm, and he stretched as much as his body would let him. She went still and watched as his eyes clamped shut and his mouth dropped open in a silent yell. He was rigid against her for a long moment, and then he melted back, breathing hard and eyes blinking in the dim light. Then he found her watching him, and his whole expression softened.

“Em…” he whispered, gaze soaking her up as if he hadn’t seen her in a thousand years.

“Did you…?”

He nodded, relief flooding across him slowly as the realization settled in. A wave of heat flashed over her as she burrowed into his cheek and clutched him close. _We did it._ She smiled and brushed away a tear before he felt it. Then one of his hands quickly slid between them, a finger finding her and circling, as she jolted in his lap.

“Oh…”

“Emily…” He turned his mouth into her hair and whispered her name over and over as his finger slid and traced through her. 

She shifted and pressed close, working with his hand quietly as he pushed her higher. The emotion carried her through as much as his efforts did, and it wasn’t long before she curled tightly, gasping through the bloom along his fingers with him still soft inside her. And then she cried a little, as his hands held her close and he sniffled into her neck.

“I love you,” he mumbled wetly, and she laughed until they both pulled back to look at one another, all sappy and red-faced.

“Love isn’t the half of it,” she whispered back. He brushed away a tear from her cheek with a knuckle and gave her that smile she adored – the one that changed him completely.

“I suppose it isn’t,” he conceded.

She moved so that they could be comfortable, and then stared at him as he watched her with his foolish grin.

“That was the first time. Since we’ve been married,” she said quietly. He nodded, smile fading a little. “You promised me, if I married you, that we’d be happy.”

He nodded again, looking worried this time. She shuffled next to him until she rested on the same pillow against the backboard.

“I want you to know you’ve kept your promise, Spence.” She brushed the tip of his nose with hers. “It’s not what either of us thought it would be, but I wouldn’t trade it for something easier and less satisfying.”

“You wouldn’t?”

She shook her head, no. “I’d take a hard day with you over an easy day with anyone else.”

He blinked a lot and then shuffled in for a kiss that stretched out into the words he couldn’t find. They slipped together and apart, softly over and over, until they both _felt_ as well as knew that the words were true.

\---- 

1959

Sassy Betty’s Motor Works was a beehive of activity today. All four bays were full and there were half a dozen cars and lorries beyond them waiting for attention. The street was busy with early summer traffic – folks leaving for holidays or people passing through to see the university. Spencer breathed in the scent of motor oil and tried to ignore how it always got him going a little. He stopped commenting on it because Emily razzed him relentlessly, though she’d used the knowledge to her advantage more than once. He couldn’t see Emily under any of the vehicles on hoists in the garage bays and he frowned. He hoped that the whole summer wouldn’t be as busy as this; he was terribly proud of the business she’d built, but he wanted to take her and the kids on a holiday before he started his speaking tour in August. 

“Hallo, Doctor Dangerous!” Penny rolled out from under a Morris Minor and waved him over, grinning widely and wiping her hands on a rag that had once been pink. “What’s the word today? Any cracking new brain theories cooking upstairs?”

He limped over to her with a smile. Penny was one of his favorites – she was always so peppy and eager to chat, even if she had no clue what he was talking about.

“I don’t think you want me to drone on about the banality of evil or the moral relativism dangers inherent in command authority constructs, Penny.”

“Well, ummm, maybe not.” She seemed bewildered for a second and then tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder as she dismissed the topic. He was always amazed that her hair was so clean working in a garage all day. “Sometimes I think yer just mashing words together that make no sense.”

“Me too, Penny, me too,” he chuckled.

“Where are the mites?” she asked, looking a little disappointed. She enjoyed sneaking them sweets that she thought neither Spencer nor Emily knew about.

“Ele’s at home with them. Peter caught a summer cold and then promptly gave it to Joan,” Spencer rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s cranky and sniffly at the moment.”

“I bet Ele’s not too keen either. A girl her age is looking for adventure on her summer break, not chasing after her siblings.”

“Yes, especially Ele,” he said dryly. “Truth be told, the only good thing about the kids being sick is that it keeps Ele home and out of trouble. But it won’t last.”

“No, it won’t. Not with that one,” Penny guffawed and shook her head, no sympathy for his fatherly worries whatsoever.

Spencer huffed a little. “Is the boss around?”

“Yeah,” Penny grinned and jabbed her thumb at the office towards the back. “I think it’s the ‘shouting-at-suppliers’ bit of the day. You know how she loves that…”

Spencer smirked and limped through the garage towards the office, waving to Penny, and then Doris, Rachel, and Carl as he passed them. Doris waved back, Rachel blushed and ducked back under her Mercedes truck, and Carl greeted him with a gruff, “Lieutenant” through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Spencer didn’t like the title, and it was no longer relevant anyway, but Carl had been in the war as well and Spencer suspected he saw it as a gesture of respect, so Spencer never said anything about it. The others took one look at his limp and knew not to ask.

Spencer got to the office, knocked once, and then let himself in. Emily was on the phone, and, as Penny predicted, she was having a heated conversation with someone. She leaned against her desk in her coveralls growling into the phone, her name stitched into a pocket above the embroidered patch of the garage’s logo, which was a rendering of her younger self posing in front of a BSA M20 motorcycle. It had caused more than a few raised eyebrows from the townsfolk when the sign went up over the expanded shop she’d bought years ago, and many new customers saw her and asked if she was Betty. Depending only how charitable she felt in the moment, she either simply said, “No”, or “Betty’s the motorcycle”. Neither statement made her seem less odd, and that didn’t appear to worry her, much to Spencer’s private delight. She lit up when she saw him – something he never tired of – and held up her hand to tell him ‘gimme a minute’. Then she went straight back to demanding that she get her supply of brake pads at the price she’d negotiated three months earlier.

“I’m not concerned about your increased overhead, Mr. Baylor. Ralph Bilson over in Aylesbury still gets your pads at the same price, so why are mine ten percent more expensive? Perhaps I should ask him to purchase the pads instead and I can negotiate with him. He seems like a sort who appreciates a square deal and a beneficial business relationship.”

Spencer smirked. Whoever Mr. Baylor was, he suspected that the man wasn’t going to enjoy how this conversation resolved itself. He cast his eyes around her office – to the neat receipt filing system, the framed patent certificates on the walls, her personal tools all lined up and clean in their proper place on a workbench at the far side of the room, and the various photos scattered around. Ele hanging upside-down from a tree branch, grinning and with her braids almost touching the mud. Peter holding up his first model airplane to the camera proudly, a gap in his smile from a missing tooth. A photo of Emily holding Joan in her arms at the hospital, a beaming smile for her brand new daughter. A snapshot from a university party, he and Emily dressed glamorously, smiling at each other, her arms around him, and his curled around her and the handle of a cane. Her office wasn’t just where she worked, it was a reminder of all she’d accomplished. He loved its worn patina and practical furnishings; it was a tribute to her determination and gutsiness – the things he cherished about her the most. Even her chewing out poor, shifty Mr. Baylor. It all made him immensely proud of her, to still be the one by her side.

His gaze shifted back to her and her cheeks were flushed from the phone call, her eyes glittering. She was all business, but her capability was always a little breathtaking to him. It probably wasn’t the most enlightened response, but he couldn’t help himself. Fourteen years of marriage and he still got stunned by her like helpless teenager. She stood away from the desk and cocked a hand on one hip as she delivered her ultimatum. She was wrapping things up.

“Yes, Mr. Baylor, that would be acceptable. I’ll expect to see the shipment the first of next week. Good day, sir.” She hung up definitively. “What an utter dipstick.”

Spencer chuckled. She looked at him and smiled.

“He thought I wouldn’t notice a ten percent price hike across the board. As if I could run a business without understanding basic math.” She rolled her eyes.

“Well, he won’t make that mistake again.”

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll try. They always try.” She grinned and strode over until she could wrap him up and kiss him. “This is a nice surprise.”

“I’m glad you think so,” he murmured against her lips before taking them in a much deeper kiss.

He grabbed fistfuls of her coveralls and frog-marched them back towards her desk. She made a questioning noise as it happened but didn’t pull away. They hit the edge of the desk, his leg brace clunking against it loudly, but he still bent her back until her hips pressed tightly against his. He hadn’t planned on this, but it was a lot to ask him to ignore all the things that drove him nuts about her when they were all around him.

“Hey, ummm… what’s the story?” she grinned with a scorching blush when they came up for air. “I’m not complaining but, it’s the middle of a Thursday afternoon. In my office.”

“I’ve sorta always wanted you… on this desk,” he kissed into her throat as he licked down to her collar.

“Really,” she breathed. “Interesting.”

“I like a woman who knows how to get things done,” he bit into the base of her throat. “And you’re familiar with my penchant for overalls…”

“Yes,” she shivered, and he smiled into her skin. “But is this really why you came by?”

He pulled up and then pressed his hips into hers meaningfully. “No, but my priorities have shifted.”

“Yes, I can feel that,” she smirked. “But what was your original intention?”

He sighed and backed off a little. “I smashed the brace into a door again. One of the hinges is sticking.”

She rolled her eyes and pushed him back gently, bending down and lifting his pant leg to see the brace clamped around his left leg. The leg never gained enough useful sensation to be reliable, while his right leg had mostly recovered. He found using two canes to walk awkward, and going back to a wheelchair when he’d fought so hard to get out of it wasn’t an option. Emily came up with the idea to make _his leg_ the cane by stabilizing it into something he could balance and pivot on. She’d made several braces over the years culminating in this one which was slim enough to fit under his clothes if they were loose enough. But he was just as clumsy with his braced, senseless leg as he had been with his healthy ones, and he tended to need a lot of adjustments as a result.

“Honestly, Spence, it’s a part of your body, not a battering ram,” she mumbled as she fiddled with it. “Have a care for this woman’s hard work.”

“Oh, I do, believe me. Perhaps I did in on purpose so I could get a certain mechanic to strip it off for repairs. Leaving me all vulnerable to her wicked aims towards me.”

She looked up at him in surprise. He waggled his eyebrows. “On the desk maybe,” he added.

“Dr. Reid, are you using inverted authority dynamics to manipulate me into ravishing you?”

“Sorta. Maybe.” He grinned. “Is it working?”

“ _I’m_ working,” she huffed and got to her feet again, pressing close.

“We could lock the door.”

“I have employees.”

“Who use plenty of noisy tools, God bless them.”

“We have sick kids at home who need tending.”

“Elliot is with them and she needs to learn responsibility.”

“We’re grown-ups! And it’s the middle of the day!” she sputtered.

“I know! Exciting, isn’t it?” he grinned, reaching forward and pulling her in for a kiss so intense she moaned. “This is exactly the sort of thing we won’t have much time for between holidays with screaming children, planning for my book tour in the fall, and you gleefully emasculating every motor supplier in southern England.”

He pushed her back a step, pressing his hips to hers and waiting. “C’mon, Em, have your way with me.” He nuzzled into the hair next to her ear and whispered, “Only _your way_ with me.”

She made a sound halfway between a defeated whimper and a wicked purr, and then she pushed him back, hands on both of his shoulders.

“Jesus Roosevelt Christ,” she grumbled and walked past him.

He turned, mischief tapering, until he heard her turn the lock on the office door. She swiveled back to face him, a sassy look about her that was his downfall from the first time he saw it.

“Right. Up on the desk,” she said with cool professionalism. “Let’s see if we can unkink your hinges.”


End file.
